Corruption of the Ring
by chi-chi-chimera
Summary: In which Bilbo Baggins does not just ifind/i the Ring of Power, he learns to iuse/i it. Dark Lord Bilbo AU, featuring badass hobbits, disturbed wizards and irritated Nazgul. And a curious dragon.
1. Chapter 1

Very many things have happened in my long life since the Ring of Power first came into my possession. I could never for a moment have anticipated, that day I left the comfort of my neat Hobbit Hole in the Shire, what heights of wonder and majesty I would reach, what servants I would one day command. I was a simple gentleman of simple means. Hardly someone you might expect would one day rule over the many lands and many races of Middle Earth.

How did I come to this? Well, you might ask. And most creatures bold enough to question me would not be particularly fond of the consequences. I write this though, my Red Grimoire, not for the common folk who without my guidance would be constantly warring and fighting and hating one another, but for my nephew Frodo, who is dear to me, for all that he has little stomach for the necessities of power.

After the Ring first came to me, I remember the fear that filled my heart during that panicked chase through the depths of the mountain. It was dark as pitch without the glow from my little elven blade, and all I had to tell me of my pursuer were his anguished cries for his 'precious'. I was feeling my way more than anything. I didn't know those tunnels, not like he did. I admit it only because I was an entirely different creature then, but I was terrified. The passage closed in around me, and then all of a sudden I was stuck, and for a too-long moment it seemed no amount of straining and sucking in my stomach would fit me through that narrow gap. The creature Gollum was almost upon me. And then, with a fearful cry, the buttons of my fine waistcoat burst free and I slipped through the crack, falling as I did so.

The Ring, clasped until then in the sweat-slick palm of my hand, flew free. It came down onto my finger, and in that moment everything changed.

Instead of the black worse than a moonless night, the world around me was rendered in ghostly form, all colour drained from it, but visible as at twilight. Gollum leapt in after me, but instead of falling on me and dashing my head against the stone as I had feared, he twisted and turned and looked around in frustration, seeing nothing. I gaped at him, not knowing quite whether this was some kind of trick. A pretty poor and unpleasant kind of trick if it was, I thought.

I worked out pretty sharpish however that I truly was invisible, and that it was the work of the Ring that had come to me so fortunately. I watched the pitiful creature scramble off down the passage-way, and pulling myself to my feet, was quick to follow after him. After all, it was always possible that he would unwittingly lead me right to the exit. And luckily for me, that turned out to be the case. After many twists and turns Gollum paused at a narrow junction, and I could see a change in the light shining down from the left hand side. I had my sword out, just in case I had to use it. I was still unsure as to the limitations of my invisibility. A sound from me might easily draw attention. I even tried to make my breathing as shallow as possible as I crept closer.

Suddenly the creature ducked back inside our corridor, and with utter amazement at the neatness of the coincidence I saw Thorin's party running past, sprinting down the passageway and right by us. I took a step forward ready to call out to them before realising how foolish that would be. There was still Gollum to contend with.

The creature really was pathetic, crouching there whimpering behind a rock. In the twilight world I was able to get a good look at him, which had been impossible in the darkness before. He was pale, and so skinny the knobs of his spine stuck out the length of his back. There was something twisted about him. As I stood there, my sword poised at his neck, I felt a wave of revulsion sweep over me. I had been so terrified of this pitiful little thing. And why? I had a blade, and he had only his hands and loose rocks.

I drew the sword back, and with a blow much stronger than I had thought myself capable of, took his head clean off.

I wasn't expecting the blood. The body slumped to the floor and the surprisingly hot liquid painted a spray across my face. I shuddered and groped blindly for the scrap of dwarvish cloth that had served as my handkerchief the past few weeks, finally finding it and wiping my eyes convulsively. It was my first real taste of murder. I can now appreciate the value of violence when carefully and properly applied, but it would take me some while to come to that place.

Stepping gingerly over the corpse and the spreading pool of blood, I ran for the exit.

* * *

I managed to follow the trail left by Gandalf and the dwarves down the mountainside, a full and scrambling flight away from the darkness of that pit and the shock of what I had done, so counter to the character of any hobbit. I suppose I was still mostly in shock at that point, acting on instinct more than anything. Still wearing the Ring, the sun overhead was wan and pale, and it gave forth no heat. My fingers were tight around the hilt of my short sword.

When I finally did catch up with the company, it was to overhear angry words being thrown about, aimed at me, which wasn't exactly a surprise. It wasn't the first time I had heard these things said. I was soft and useless, and couldn't look after myself, and now I was lost into the bargain. As though I should have just let the goblins carry me off with the rest of them? And hadn't I just found my way out of the mountain by using my own wits, and slain an enemy into the bargain?

Well! I would show them. With the Ring, I could give them a surprise sure enough when I popped up in their midst.

Then Thorin spoke. "I'll tell you what happened," he said, in that low growl of his. "Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it! He has thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door."

I sank back against a tree. I could hardly deny his words, stated in such a plain fashion; I'd complained enough to myself about the hardships of our quest, some of it out loud were the others must have overheard me, and just before the floor of the cave opened up under our feet I had been willing to leave and head back to Rivendell. In fact, I'd thought that was what Thorin and many of the dwarves wanted, and so I ought to oblige them. I thought that it would make them happy, not having to look out for their incompetent so-called burglar anymore. But now I found that I wanted to continue. I wanted to go on, to help them with their quest. I could show them that I wasn't a burden, that I was starting to learn how to take care of myself.

"We will not be seeing our hobbit again," Thorin said. "He is long gone."

I made my decision. I slipped the Ring from my finger and stepped out into full view. "No," I said, in more defiant tones than I'd meant. "He isn't."

"Bilbo Baggins!" Gandalf said, with a great sigh of relief. "I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life. But whatever has happened to you?"

I followed the direction of his gaze and saw that I still bore my sword unsheathed, and that the blade was bloodied with gore. No doubt I hadn't really been able to get all of it off my face either, not without the aid of a mirror. Gandalf was not the only one showing concern; the faces of my companions were dismayed, and both Bofur and Thorin had taken several steps towards me as though afraid I was about to keel over at any second.

"It's nothing," I said. "Not my blood."

"Nor is it the blood of any orc or goblin either," Thorin said, his hand half raised from his side as though he was thinking of grabbing me and checking me over for wounds. "For they bleed black."

"It was just some creature that lived in the tunnels," I said, dismissively. "I'm not hurt, there's no need to worry. I found my way out just fine, thank you very much."

"We'd nearly given you up," Kili said.

"How on earth _did_ you get past all those goblins?" his brother asked. I gave a little laugh thinking of all that had happened over... how long had it been anyway? I slipped the Ring into my pocket with a casual motion. Already some part of me recognised its value, and I was reluctant to tell the dwarves the full story. Thankfully I was spared – mostly – from having to thinking anything up on the fly by Gandalf.

"What does it matter?" he said, with a wide smile. "He's back!" I should have known at the time that the tricky Istari knew more than he was letting on, but I knew little of wizards then.

"It matters," Thorin said, pulling his hand away and glaring at me with something that was not quite anger. "I want to know. Why did you come back?"

It was a fair question – I could have slipped away, and with the power of the Ring, it would not have been too great a challenge to creep back through the web of caves and off towards home, with tales enough to tell of high adventure and danger. Truthfully, I was not even entirely sure myself. But standing there, searching for something that would satisfy the King-in-Exile, I found that the answer was right there before me.

"I know you doubt me," I said, "I know you always have. And you're right, I often think of Bag-End. I miss my books... and my armchair... and my garden. You see, that's where I belong, that's home. And that's why I came back, because you don't have one; a home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back, if I can." The very words had the weight of an oath behind them.

I realised then that that was my purpose. To see that the dwarves of Erebor were returned to their rightful homes. A dragon had stolen it, and no-one else in the whole of Middle-Earth, it seemed, had the courage or will to help them regain it. Were the truly no noble beings out there that might have given them aid? It seemed not. Not even the elves, who I had always heard from the tales were wise, and fair, and good, had turned their backs on Thorin and his kin. Small wonder that they hated them. I thought, then, of how I would feel to be driven out of the Shire along with all my neighbours and relations, and a deep anger woke up inside me. I had known it all along, but now it really resonated in a way it hadn't before. I was angry with the elves, and I was angry with the other dwarvish nations.

Unfortunately I didn't have time to think over this realisation in any more depth than that, because at that very moment we heard the howling of wolves, or rather in this case wargs, on the distant heights above us. There was nothing for it but to run, and so run we did, and all thoughts of the quest were driven out of my head in the scramble for safety.

* * *

Stuck in a tree hanging over the edge of a cliff, likely to fall to certain death, orcs and wargs blocking the only clear path through the flames and away, I had an almost irresistible urge to put on the Ring. It made little sense to me at the time; it was not as though being invisible would be a very great help to me in this situation. Even with the benefit of all I know of its powers now, it would not have availed me much then, for I did not know how to use it. In any case, I resisted. The heat of the flames could be felt even from half along the pine's trunk, and I had enough to be getting on with just hanging on to my precarious hold of the nearest branch.

The pale orc, Azog the Defiler if I recalled his name right, was howling to his kin in the language of orcs. The pack of wargs prowled at the edges of the fire. I had killed one of them earlier, the second life I had taken with my sword, although it had been more by accident than anything. It had been a beast, a predator, and I had killed it in the heat of the moment, not in cold blood like the creature Gollum. It had been an entirely different experience, with my heart fluttering in my chest with fear and the blood roaring in my ears.

Then all fell silent. Beside me Thorin was rising to his feet, his boots spread wide on the trunk near my head for stability. What on earth was he doing, I wondered? Surely he didn't intend to go down there? But I had underestimated his desire for vengeance, his need to strike out and destroy this... this symbol of everything that had gone wrong in the early days after Erebor's fall. The sparks in the breeze roiling around him like fireflies, he strode down the pine, Orcrist drawn, and charged.

I knew how good a fighter Thorin was – I had seen it enough times on our journey so far – but even so I found myself deathly afraid for him. He might have had a lot of unkind things to say about me, but neither were they entirely untrue, and I believed that at least part of his harshness was out of a concern for my own safety. Besides, if the stories I had heard from Balin and Bofur were true, he was used to being abandoned by his so-called allies. No wonder he thought the same of me. In any case, I did not want to see him hurt.

The albino warg that Azog rode leapt. Orcrist flashed in the light of the flames, but whatever wound it dealt was not deep. The weight of the warg bore Thorin to the ground, and the beast turned and wheeled to attack him again. Thorin had barely gotten his feet under him before the cruel mace the orc wielded caught him a mighty blow across the chest. I think I cried out in that moment, but in all the confusion it is hard to recall. If it wasn't for the ancestral mithril mail that I later learned the King kept concealed beneath his scaled steel jerkin, I have no doubt that it would have crushed his ribs and perhaps even killed him outright.

I scrambled upright then. It wasn't a conscious decision. I just knew that I had to do something. Before the passage under the mountains, before the demands this quest had forced me to meet, I would never have even thought about doing something so bold. I would have been paralysed by my fear. Not now. I might die, but I had to help Thorin. I respected him. I cared about him.

The warg's massive jaws closed around the King and he yelled in pain. Unable to take my eyes off him, I fumbled blindly at my belt for the hilt of my sword. As my fingers finally found it, the beast tossed Thorin high with a flick of its head and he landed heavily on an outcropping of rock near the edge of the cliff. At a command from Azog, one of the other orcs dismounted and made its way over to the fallen dwarf, a huge cleaver of a blade ready in its hand. But now my own blade was drawn, and light-footed as all hobbits, I charged.

With no thought for tactics or swordplay I tackled the orc and we grappled. It stank to high heavens even over the burning wood-smoke that filled the air, and it was strong too, frightfully so. But I was fighting for my life and for Thorin's, and I managed to find my own store of strength from somewhere. I forced my blade, faintly glowing blue, into the orc's chest. It shuddered and died beneath me. Black blood seeped from the wound, although, I noted distantly, there was much less of it than had sprung from Gollum's neck.

I rose to face the rest of the pack, but I did not do so alone. The others of our company joined the battle, and then everything was a confusion of limbs and swords and fur until the piercing cry of a bird of prey split the night air. Eagles, giant eagles, had come to our rescue.

* * *

After we had been dropped off, in some cases literally, at the top of a pillar of rock, and I had received a most unexpected, though quite welcome, embrace from Thorin Oakenshield, Gandalf began to lead us towards the home of a man he said he knew nearby, who would be able to supply us with food, since we had none, and treat Thorin's wounds, which were troubling him much more than he was willing to admit, so much so that he even needed some support from Balin and Dwalin when we were forced to climb down steeper parts of the hill.

The day began to turn surprisingly hot as it went on, for all that we were still in the foothills of the eternally snow-capped Misty Mountains. The walk was slow going and sweaty, and I was glad indeed when we stopped by the side of a stream so that Balin and Dwalin could force Thorin to rest, for he would not have done so if they hadn't near dumped him on his backside at the foot of a tree.

Bofur came over to me then. "You'll be wanting to give that little knife of yours a clean," he told me. I looked at him in surprise, for the concept had not crossed my mind. "It might be an elven blade and proof against rust, but that won't stop it sticking to the inside of your scabbard if you don't get the blood off."

"Oh, well yes, you're right," I said, pulling it out and noticing that it did not come easily. "Bother, and now I've made a mess in there, and I haven't the faintest clue how to clean _that_ out."

"Here, I'll show you."

Bofur led me over to the stream and soon enough my short sword was bright and gleaming once again. I examined my reflexion in the blade, and noticed I was still filthy with gore and dirt on top of that. I had barely noticed it, which was a far cry from how neat and tidy I used to be back in the Shire. I was aware of Thorin watching me as I washed my face clean, though when I looked over at him, he was in conversation with Balin about something or other. There were faint lines of tension around his eyes. I was sure he was in pain, although of course he wasn't admitting it.

We did not tarry for very long there, but kept along to the house of this 'Beorn', as Gandalf had named him. After a few hours the forest began to open up into grassland, the trees growing fewer and more widely spaced. The air was heavy with the scent of wildflowers, and everywhere it seemed there were birds singing and darting around in the air. It was a very pleasant sight indeed after the mountains, although there was something far more wild about it than the homely scenery of the Shire that I could not help but compare it to.

Before long we encountered the first of the bees. They were huge things, fat and fluffy and each nearly as long as one of my fingers. They were busying themselves with great patches of clover, all different kinds, which sprung up in the meadows between the trees. A few buzzed over to investigate us, and one even came to sit on Gandalf's hand when he stretched it out. Our dull and grimy clothes clearly held little interest for them however, and they flew off back to their business, which was something of a relief.

"Jolly little fellows aren't they," Gandalf said, smiling. More like great, fuzzy menaces, I thought to myself, taking in the size of their stingers. "They are Beorn's bees. He has a fondness for honey, and no doubt we shall be feasting on that tonight."

Beorn's home, when we finally came upon it, was made up of a number of large halls with walls of wooden logs and low thatched roofs. There were gardens filled with many plants of vine and vegetables that I recognised from my own and others back home, but also plenty that were entirely foreign to me. Out in front of the largest hall was a figure that had to be the man himself.

Beorn was tall, taller even than Gandalf, and as stoutly built as any dwarf, massively muscled all over and just as hairy too. He was splitting logs into firewood with an axe at least as big as I was. He looked up at the sound of our coming and scowled, swinging the huge hatchet up onto his shoulder and watching us approach with wary eyes.

"A wizard, a party of dwarves, and one strange little foreign thing," he said. "I know none of you, and nor do I know what you are doing on my doorstep."

We all looked at one another, and seemed to reach a silent agreement that Gandalf ought to do the talking. He was meant to know this fellow, after all.

"I am Gandalf," the wizard said, "and this is Thorin Oakenshield and his company."

"Gandalf? Ought that name mean anything to me?"

"Well!" Gandalf said, looking just as put out as when I had failed to recognise him at the very beginning of this adventure. "You know my good friend Radagast the Brown, surely?"

"Aye, him I know. A good fellow, as these things go," Beorn replied. "And I suppose one wizard is much like another. What business have you here?"

One wizard certainly isn't much like another, but none of us was about to correct him when it seemed to be the thing that had thawed him towards our presence at least a little. "Hmm, well," Gandalf began. "You see we have been struck by rather a measure of ill fortune. We were passing through the mountain pass that was to have taken us south of your lands when we were set upon by goblins, and so we have lost all of our supplies and are somewhat out of our way."

Beorn raised a massive eyebrow. "Set upon by goblins, he says, without any further explanation. How exactly did you come to get away from them then?"

"The tale is a long one," Gandalf said, leaning on his staff. "And not fit to be told standing out in the open. Perhaps in return for its telling, we might prevail upon your hospitality? Not to mention that one of our number is injured, and his wounds need tending."

Beorn snorted with laughter. "You have got my interest up, so I suppose you might as well. I have food enough for even a company such as this, and I do very much want to hear your tale."

Thorin bowed, as much as his injuries would let him. "We are much obliged to you, Master Beorn," he said. I was a little surprised at how gracious he was being, but then I suppose Beorn was not, after all, an elf, which made all the difference. We followed the huge man inside. I for one, was greatly looking forward to being fed.

* * *

We ate well that night in Beorn's hall, and the bear-like man spread Thorin's wounds with some kind of paste that smelt of herbs and honey, which seemed to help him greatly. Our company certainly made the most of the safe harbour as the evening wore on, for although there was no more meat here than there had been at the elves' table, there was a great deal of fine bread, as well as milk, cream, honey, and a great variety of sweet cakes, some soft, some chewy, some sticky, and all delicious. There was beer too, rich and almost like solid food itself, and the first mead I had ever tasted. We all had our fill, and the dwarves quickly grew merry, and soon the singing started up. None of it was anything I knew, and things only grew more foreign to me when they meandered into songs in Khuzdul, but still the tunes were by turns hearty and haunting, and always fine to listen to.

As dusk fell we all sat before the fire and listened to Gandalf spin out the story of our journey so far as well as any bard or storyteller might have done. The rest of us had lost our baggage under the mountains, but the wizard had at least kept his, and was generous enough to share out the last of his store of Longbottom Leaf amongst those of us who wanted it. I took my time over my pipe that night, contented and full for the first time since Rivendell, knowing that this would likely be the last good Shire tobacco to be found this side of the mountains. Our host seemed to enjoy Gandalf's rendering of our tale greatly, much as he had enjoyed the songs of the dwarves before.

Eventually the hour grew late enough to force us to our beds. Beorn directed us to a heap of woollen blankets stored in a massive wooden chest, and whilst we were busy laying these out around the fire, he had a quiet word with Gandalf. Then, looking us over and snorting to himself, he turned and left the hall, striding out into the darkness. Gandalf cleared his throat to get the attention of those who hadn't looked up at the sound of the door closing.

"Beorn has some business out in the wilderness tonight," the wizard said, "but he instructed me to warn you not to step outside before the sun is up, for it is likely to be perilous."

"No fear of that," Glóin said. "It's far too comfortable in here to go wandering off into the dark for no good reason."

We settled down for the night after that. It wasn't long before snoring filled the air around me, but despite my full belly I found myself unable to drift off to sleep. I tossed and turned, but it was nothing to do with feeling uncomfortable, for indeed I was near enough the fire to be as warm and cosy as I could wish. No, the truth was I was just restless. The Ring was a heavy weight in my pocket, pressing against my stomach.

I crept out from under my covers and made my way carefully through between the sleeping forms of the rest of the company. The fire was starting to burn low, and the hall was filled with shadows. I made sure to pick up my sword and strap it firmly around my waist, and then I slipped the Ring onto my finger.

At once I was back in that ghostly world. The entirety of the hall was visible again, although where shadows might otherwise have fallen there was instead a kind of strange fog. I could see that one of the shutters over the window near the door had been left open a touch. I went over, stood up on the bench that had handily been placed there, and peered out. The moon was up, low over the forest, but even without its light I would have been able to see. The last time I had tried this I had been fleeing for my life, and I had had little time to look around and take stock of this strange way of viewing the world, but now I could look at things properly.

Things were not, in fact, entirely how they appeared under the light of the sun. The gardens and meadows looked at first glance the same, but peering closer, I saw that they seemed wilder, less cultivated. At times a great shadow in the shape of a bear seemed to move along the rows, and where it walked the vines and leaves waved under their own power, curling grasping tendrils and sticking out thorns that had not been there before. In the east the forest lay as if under a shadow, and on the horizon to the south-east dark clouds gathered, and strange, unnatural lights seemed to glow just on the edge of perception.

Nor was this a quiet world. Although the snoring of the dwarves and the odd crackle from the fire were muted, on the very edge of my hearing I could detect... something. Like a voice whispering to me. I thought that perhaps if only I strained and listened hard enough, I might be able to make out the words. I closed my eyes and focused in on it with all my might. It was coming from somewhere close by, very close.

It was coming from the Ring.

My eyes flew open and I stared down at the golden band around my finger. It seemed to glow with light and colour as nothing else in this twilight world did. I began then to have some inkling of the vast capabilities of this, most precious, treasure. I still could not understand what it was whispering to me, not entirely, but there was some sense that if only I kept at it, it would eventually become clear.

I don't know how long I was standing at that window looking at the Ring, but suddenly my attention was caught by noise coming from outside. There was a great growling from many throats, and when I turned my head up it was to see dozens of dark shapes coming towards the house from the meadows. Bears, a score or more, and in their midst with a limp something hanging from its jaws was the most massive bear I had ever seen, the size of a house at least. Its eyes were burning like coals, although whether that was real or a product of this ghost world I did not know.

The bears came and stood in the open courtyard before Beorn's hall. The huge leader approached the centre of their circle and threw down the thing it held with a violent and contemptuous jerk. Then it stood up on its hind legs, tall as a tree, and threw back its head. I was not sure quite what I was expecting, but it certainly was not for it to begin to shrink down and change, until at last was revealed the form of our host, naked, clad only in shadows.

Well! Gandalf certainly had not seen fit to mention _that_ when he brought us here! No wonder we were not to walk outside during the night, if things like this were going on.

Beorn did not speak in the tongues of men to the other bears, but in some strange, growling language. He motioned to one of the larger brown bears which appeared to be dragging something behind it, and it brought up the bound form of an orc, struggling against ropes and biting at a gag. Beorn paced forward and ripped the piece of cloth free, though before the orc could utter more than a couple of what must surely have been curses he clapped one massive hand over its mouth, growling just like the bear he had been so recently.

"You will tell me what you and your filthy warg were doing in my woods at the Carrock's foot," he said, speaking now in Westron.

He released his hand, but got only more foul words for his trouble. Beorn responded by roaring in its face, spittle flying, baring heavy fangs that I was positive he had not had during his time with us that afternoon.

"Speak orc, or you shall wish you had!"

The thing cringed. "I will speak, Gakh will speak. Yes, yes, mercy!" It gulped several times, its eyes rolling about in its head as it took in the bears surrounding it. "We were searching, searching the woods for the dwarf-filth for Azog, great Azog the Defiler. They are his rightful prey, his to kill. So nearly we had them, up in the mountains, but eagles took them." The orc spat on the ground at this last part. "Ill luck."

"I am told they killed the Goblin King as well," Beorn said.

The orc licked at his teeth. "That's true," he said. "But how does the bear-man know that? Perhaps the dwarf-filth passed this way?"

"Perhaps they did," Beorn said, baring his teeth again, and then with a suddenness that took me quite off guard, he took hold of the orc's head and wrenched it clean off. I ducked back down behind the windowsill in shock. I saw once again my sword flashing through the air, Gollum's head falling to the ground, the spray of blood...

I did not regret doing it. It had been necessary. But it had still given me a nasty turn afterwards, and I was taking a while to get used to it. I needed to accustom myself to the realities of war and battle like the dwarves of our company were, if I was ever to prove myself as one of them. There would be other things that needed killing on the path to Erebor, other dangers to face.

I poked my head up again to see that the bears had begun to disperse. The orc's body lay where it had fallen, and Beorn was down on his knees by the other shape on the ground, whatever he had been carrying when he first arrived. He had out a long knife from somewhere and was cutting into it. Even in the twilight of the Ring-world, I could not see quite what he was up to.

Well, it seemed I had seen all that there was to be seen this night, at least. And now fatigue was starting to dwell on me as it had refused to before. I slipped down from the bench and padded back to my bed. Perhaps things would become clearer in the morning.

* * *

I slept in the next morning as a consequence of my late night wanderings, and when I woke it was to see Bofur standing over me and grinning. "Wake up lazybones," he said, "or there will be no breakfast left for you at all."

"What?" I mumbled, raising my head blearily, then scrambling to my feet when it sunk in that he was talking about food. "Breakfast? Where is it?"

"Mostly inside us," he said, "but there's a little left out on the veranda. Beorn is nowhere to be found, but there was food set out when we woke up. There's bread and butter, cheese and scrambled eggs..."

He kept on in a teasing sort of tone but I had already heard enough and headed out with all speed. I was a hobbit after all, and we always wake up hungry. There was enough left for me to scrape together a quite satisfactory meal, and after that I wandered out to see if there was anything of note where the bears had had their meeting. The grass was trampled down in many places, and there was black blood just visible if you knew where to look, but other than that there was little to see.

There was no sign of Beorn all that day, and none of Gandalf either until suppertime. I spend the day wandering around the gardens and listening to more of Balin's tales over lunch. I stopped in to see Thorin too, who through some miracle had agreed to lay by the fire and rest.

"Ah," he said when he saw me, smiling as he had done just before hugging me after our escape from Azog, "it is our courageous hobbit! Come and join me. I have not yet congratulated you on the slaying of your first orc."

I went and sat next to him. He propped himself up on one arm to look at me. The afternoon sun streaked down on us from the smoke-hole in the ceiling high above. "I don't know if I would call myself courageous," I said, although I appreciated the compliment. "I didn't really think about what I was doing. I just knew that I had to do _something_."

"You might not call yourself a warrior," Thorin said, clapping me on the shoulder. "But you are certainly shaping up to be one in future. I told Balin at the beginning of our quest that all I asked of our companions was loyalty, honour, and a willing heart, and you have all three."

I felt myself blushing at his kind words, so different from those he had thrown my way in the past. I supposed that I had changed a great deal since leaving home, and was likely to change a great deal more too as we went on. It could only be a good thing. I wanted to pull my weight as a member of the company.

"We shall have to see that you learn how to use that knife of yours," Thorin continued. "For although you don't lack enthusiasm, your skill could use some work."

"You've got that right," I said, thinking of my wild flailing at Gollum by the deep lake, and again standing between Thorin and Azog's warg-pack.

"Perhaps... when we leave this place..." Thorin said, oddly hesitant. "I might teach you myself?"

For some reason my heart quickened at the suggestion, and my throat was oddly dry as I replied. "I would like that very much."

Thorin nodded firmly, and we sat together in a warm and companionable sort of silence for some while after that until Fili and Kili poked their heads through the door and told me to come outside, for Dwalin and Bifur were having a wrestling match, and surely I wanted to see the outcome of _that_.

* * *

Gandalf returned that night in time for the evening meal, although he said nothing of where he had been until after he had eaten. When finally he pushed his plate away, he told us something that dismayed us all very much.

"I am afraid I cannot stay with you all for very much longer," he said, "indeed, I shall be with you only as far as the borders of the Greenwood, which now goes by the ill name Mirkwood."

"And do you mean to come back?" Thorin asked angrily. "Or perhaps you have deemed our quest no longer to your liking. Do you hold the contract you signed to so little value?"

"I am not abandoning you," Gandalf said, sounding rather irritated himself. "But there is business to be seen to nearby that requires a wizard's attention. Those of my order have responsibilities greater than even your quest, Thorin Oakenshield."

"But we need you to help us kill the dragon," Ori said, looking very nervous.

"Oh, I think you will not find it quite the challenge you seem to expect," Gandalf said, with a twinkle in his eye. I do not know even now quite what he meant by that, for I sincerely doubt he could have foreseen the way _that_ particular story ended. Perhaps he was merely being mysterious in the way of all wizards.

There was much grumbling between the members of the company at this unwelcome news, but apparently Gandalf had not actually sworn to come any further than the Greenwood in either word or the terms of whatever contract he had signed, nor was he expecting any share of the treasure once we eventually claimed it, so there was little anyone could do to convince him to stay. Even I knew that wizards were stubborn, and largely went wherever they pleased.

Eventually Gandalf interrupted the complaints by bringing up the matter of where he had been all day. It turned out that he had been tracking some of the bears from the meeting the night before (although he made no mention of that fact that Beorn was one of them – perhaps he did not wish to trouble us further with the revelation that our host was a shapeshifter) and had followed one to the river near the Carrock, back the way we had come. The dwarves then fell to a discussion of what all this strangeness meant. I said nothing. Beorn's secret was not mine to reveal, and if Gandalf hadn't spoken of it I felt, at the time, that he must have a good reason for it.

When we did finally turn in for the night, I managed to fall asleep along with the others, although I did wake at some point during the night to hear snuffling and growling coming from outside once again. I didn't get up to see what it was. We were due to leave in the morning, and I wanted one good night's sleep before we set off on our journey again.

* * *

Beorn had reappeared the next morning, and seemed to be in good spirits at breakfast. He was generous with provisioning us for the road, giving us strong, well-made packs filled with solid cakes baked with honey, seeds, and nuts that he promised would keep for a good long while. He also gave us the loan of fourteen ponies and one horse for Gandalf. The animals apparently lived wild on his land and were of uncommon intelligence. We were to leave them at the border of the forest, and they would find their own ways home.

He also gave us some good advice about the forest we were to pass through. Although it had once been fine and fair, a shadow had come over it in the past months, the same shadow that Radagast had brought us news of. The game was no longer good to eat, and many sources of water had turned foul. There was a great river that came down from the mountains of Mirkwood that he had been told (I suspected by his bears, although I didn't know if they could change their shape as he could, or were bears in truth) now put a terrible enchantment on any who so much as touched its waters, casting them into a sleep of forgetfulness that it was nigh impossible to wake from.

He also told our company about a little-used road further to the north of the one that Thorin had originally intended to lead us by. It went closer to the elven realm of King Thranduil than I suspected he was comfortable with, but it was much more direct, and also a little safer if Beorn was to be believed. But one of the things he emphasised above all else was that whatever way we took, we must not stray off the path, for dark and dangerous things lurked under the eaves of the forest, drawn by whatever evil had invaded it, and we would surely perish.

We set out around mid morning, and I finally found out what had happened to that orc and Beorn's other prize as we passed a pair of tall chestnuts on the trail east. A tall pointed stake had been driven into the earth between the trees and the orc's head impaled upon it. A warg pelt was nailed to the left hand tree, and the two corpses hung, strung up by their back legs, from the branches of that on the right. I stared at the gory sight, unable to look away. Our host was a dangerous man indeed, but, I suspected, only to those who crossed him. I was just glad that Gandalf had persuaded him we were not trespassers; else I hate to think what might have happened to us.

* * *

The gate to the northern road was four days ride away. When we camped for the first night I had my first lesson with Thorin under the light of the setting sun, practising basic movements and footwork with branches in place of blades. When I finally lay down for the night I was bone-tired and covered in sweat, yet even so sleep was once again elusive. The Ring was weighing heavily on my thoughts. I had a deep curiosity to know just what it was trying to whisper to me.

It was not long before I gave into the urge to rise and put it on. The twilight world snapped into place around me, and the whisper started to murmur its way into my ears. I did not go wandering, merely sat cross-legged upon my blankets with my hands folded in my lap, playing with the Ring upon my finger, twisting it back and forth, listening.

_Tell me what you are_, I thought. _Tell me what you can do. _

It seemed that the quiet words might be a little louder than the last time I had heard them, but I was not sure. I frowned. It did not seem as though this was going to be a quick process; rather the reverse. Whatever answers the Ring held, wherever it had come from, whatever its powers were, I would have to coax them out of it. There was something almost... stubborn about it, although it seemed at the time foolish to apply emotions to an inanimate object.

But of course, the Ring was far from inanimate, as I was to find out.

Before I finally went to sleep that night I looked up and saw a shape against the horizon of a nearby knoll. It was a great bear, black with glowing eyes. Beorn was still keeping his eye upon us. Yet I felt more comforted than afraid. He was a thing of the wild, not a thing of evil, I recognised that much. We were under his protection. There was little need to fear.

I rested well and deeply that night, and dreamed of fire.

* * *

Every night until we reached the eaves of Mirkwood, after my lessons with Thorin, I spent hours focusing on the Ring. Each time the words grew clearer, until at last I began to be able to make out a few of them – 'rule', and 'darkness', and 'find'. I was getting closer, and it made all the effort satisfying. I knew that it could not be much longer before I unlocked what was surely only the first of many mysteries that the Ring concealed. And I did not overly mind the loss of sleep. For whatever reason I seemed to need it much less than I was used to.

We found the forest gate on the morning of the fourth day since leaving Beorn's halls, as we had expected. We sent the ponies back then, although none of us was exactly enthusiastic about it. The provisions we split amongst ourselves appropriate to our strength. Where once I might have complained about the heavy load, now I was almost glad of it, for it meant that we had food enough to last us a good long while, barring accident, and I could now appreciate the value of that.

"I am sorry to say I must leave you here," Gandalf told us at this point, watching us make our preparations, still on horseback. "I will be taking this faithful fellow back by a longer route – one good Beorn knows about, let me assure you."

"I don't suppose you're likely to tell us what is so urgent that you must see to it right away?" Thorin asked.

Gandalf tapped the side of his nose. "A wizard never reveals his secrets," he said.

"But it has something to do with this shadow that has fallen over the Greenwood, has it not?" Balin asked. Gandalf made no reply other than a smile. It was clear enough to me that the elderly dwarf had hit on the truth of it, but I was not to hear any more of the Istari's doings to the south for some time, and even then it was at least half by conjecture. But that is getting ahead of myself.

"Now I bid you farewell," Gandalf said, turning his horse around. "Good-bye to all of you. Remember to stay on the path, otherwise you are likely never to find it again, and there will be no wizard coming along to help you out of trouble next time."

"Is this really the best route to take?" I asked him, looking with an uncertain eye at the dark path beneath low, gnarled branches draped with ivy. "Couldn't we just go around?"

"Not unless you wanted to go many hundreds of miles out of your way," Gandalf replied. "And it would be no safer. To the north are the Grey Mountains, the haunts of many tribes of goblins and orcs, and to the south is Dol Guldur, the dark ruins of a stronghold that was once home to a very great evil. No Bilbo, stick to the path, and with some luck you all might come out the other side alive." And with this he smiled again, and rode off, calling back any number of 'good-byes' to us and leaving me feeling rather worse than I had before he had spoken.

"No doubt we will see him again when it is most inconvenient for us and most convenient for him," Thorin said, shouldering his pack and checking that Orcrist was firmly belted to him. "You never know with wizards."

Thus we set off beneath of the bows of a pair of entangled oaks that made up the gate to the forest, into the depths of Mirkwood the Great.

* * *

It was very dark in the forest, as we soon discovered. The path wound its way between the boles of huge trees, narrow enough to force us into single file and bounded on either side by a few bushes and vines with small numbers of dark leaves that soaked up what little sun there was. There was grass, of a sort, but patchy and dry. More often there was some kind of fungus growing, slimy and horrid-looking, and thick carpets of dead leaves. I had little trouble understanding why it had earned the name Mirkwood. I could see only a little way in the dim light, and there was a foul feeling about the place.

As we continued on, I began to become aware that for all the ill aspect, there was life here. A few times I spotted black-furred squirrels leaping from branch to branch over our heads, or pausing half way up tree trunks to watch us passing, their little eyes beady-bright and strangely unnerving. There were noises from the forest, animal noises of grunting, shuffling and high-pitched calls that sounded like nothing I had ever heard before. No bird-song though. Anything that could fly seemed to have deserted the wood. I thought I spied massive cobwebs as well, strung between trees off in the murk, but I could have been wrong. Certainly there were none on the path, or even too near it.

The very air was heavy, still and quiet without a breath of wind. It seemed to bear down upon all of the company. Even Fili and Kili, who could normally be counted on to provide a light-hearted comment when the situation called for it, and often when it didn't, were silent and pale.

"It might be as dark as a mine," Bofur said to me, for I was walking in front of him and behind Thorin, "but it has none of the charm. I think I even prefer those goblin infested tunnels."

"What do you expect of a forest that is home to elves?" Thorin growled, glancing back at us. "No doubt it is particularly inhospitable to any dwarves that set foot in it."

I was pretty sure that none of this was the doing of elves, but I wasn't about to say so. It had been clear even after the first few weeks of travelling with the King-in-Exile that he could carry a grudge like even my blasted relatives the Sackville-Bagginses might have hesitated at, and I certainly was not the hobbit to change his mind.

We went on in this way, sweating in the heat of late summer, drinking only very sparingly from the water-skins we had filled before entering the forest, until the light began to fade and it became hazardous to go on any further. There was no handy clearing to make camp in, and the words of Gandalf were still very fresh in all our minds to risk going off even a little to one side or the other to look for one. We had to make do with the strip of clear, dry, ground the path gave us. The tangled roots of the trees to either side were too gnarled and uncomfortable to sleep on, and although there were not many bushes or shrubs, the dead leaves that blanketed the earth were damp with some unpleasant, odorous slime and would quickly have soaked through our blankets.

It was too early for sleep. The darkness had come upon us faster here than it would have out in the open. Glóin, Dori, Nori, Fili and Kili went off up and down the path for a short way to find firewood, but came back empty-handed. What deadwood there had been was wet with the same substance that slicked the leaves, seemingly the produce of the evil-looking fungus that grew everywhere, or riddled with beetles and other crawling things.

"We may as well continue with your sword lessons," Thorin told me. "If nothing else, it might provide some entertainment for the night."

I sighed. "I'm truly as pathetic as all that?" Mind, it did not bother me as much as it would have before the journey under the mountains. Even if I didn't know how to wield my sword properly, that hadn't stopped me killing things with it.

Thorin cleared his throat, looking almost embarrassed for some reason. "I did not mean to say... I meant no harm by it. You have proved yourself in battle and I would not have you think I was making fun of you."

"Oh, no fear. I know I probably look a right sight," I replied. "But that's what this is all about, isn't it, and I'm very grateful that you're taking the time to show me how to fight properly."

"Think nothing of it," Thorin said gruffly. "Now, let's see how you are getting on."

I suspect that our practise that evening probably did offer a great deal of entertainment to the other members of our company. They certainly seemed to enjoy shouting out tips and encouragement of their own at me as I tried to fend off Thorin's skilled attempts to poke me in the ribs with the sharp end of a stick (one we had fortunately happened to bring with us, although it wasn't enough by itself to give up to make a fire) using a wooden spoon borrowed from Bombur.

Oin was on first watch that night, for all the good it did. By that point things had gotten so dark that it was impossible to see a hand waved in front of your face. It was with a great deal of relief that I slipped the Ring on and saw the world around me once again, even if it was only in shades of grey. To my surprise, the Ring seemed to pulse with energy here, as though something had woken it up. Sitting gazing at it, I had the strangest sense that it was looking around, like some ghostly presence within the simple golden band was peering at the forest, stretching out its awareness, searching for something.

_What on earth are you doing, you strange thing?_ I asked it, frowning. For a moment that attention was focused on me, and I nearly flinched as a sudden image flashed before my eyes. A great, lidless, eye made of fire, slit-pupilled like a cat. It looked me over contemptuously, then turned away again. I found myself growing angry. What did this thing think it was? Alright, we hobbits are hardly the most fearsome creatures to look upon, but that didn't mean we weren't deserving of respect.

Although I did not fully understand the connection between the Ring and I at that time, it did not stop me being in some way aware that it existed. I channelled all my anger down that thin thread, focussing in on the image of that eye and _willing_ it to hurt. I wasn't going to have a piece of jewellery thinking it was better than me! Something screamed, high-pitched, and the _thing_, whatever it was, that lived in the Ring retreated, curling up into a little ball around my finger.

It was muttering to itself, but now I could hear it. Now I knew what it was. In a language unfamiliar and in Westron, it recited a little couplet to itself.

_Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, _

_ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul._

_One Ring to rule them all, one Ring to find them,_

_One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them._

_And that's what you are then_? I asked it. _This 'One Ring'? _

_Yes, I am Mairon's Ring,_ it hissed at me. _And you are an usurper! Mind like silver! Mind like a mirror! Nothing to grasp! I should never have chosen you. Take me south, take me south I tell you! My true master is near, I can feel him. I must go to him. We must be one once more!_

_We aren't going south,_ I told the Ring. _We're going east. And I should think that I am your master now, since I picked you up, and since it is my finger that you're on. _

It didn't make any reply to that, but I could feel it sulking. Well! It seemed that this was much more than just a simple magic ring that I had laid my hands on. I didn't know exactly what it was capable of yet, but I was sure it was a lot more than just turning me invisible. Somehow I had found a valuable treasure, beneath _a_ mountain at least, even if not the one we were heading towards.

Well indeed! What was I going to do with this Ring now?


	2. Chapter 2

The next night I had first watch, which I didn't mind, as it gave me time to work on mastering the Ring, and in any case wearing it I could actually see out into the dark, which was more than could be said for any other member of our company. However it quickly became apparent that I would make little progress at this point. The Ring was sulking. No matter how much I coaxed or prodded at it, I could not rouse it or persuade it to talk to me, and I did not yet wish to try pain. That seemed a little unfair to it, although perhaps it would become necessary in time. For the moment I was content to let it do as it wished. I had a number of things to think over anyway.

Despite the many long days we had travelled, walking or riding, often with long periods of silence where there was nothing to do but look at the landscape we were travelling through and consider our own thoughts, I had not really contemplated the most recent and rather significant events in my life in any great detail. Hobbits are not generally known as particularly deep thinkers, and the most philosophy we have ever concerned ourselves with is the importance of food and drink to a quiet and comfortable life. That was my heritage, on the Baggins side, and even the Tooks were more known for doing strange and adventurous things, rather than commenting upon them afterwards.

Now, however, it struck me as a little strange that I had barely reflected upon it at all. Oh, there had been a few moments, but for the most part I had put it to the back of my mind to be chewed over by my sub-conscious like a tough and grisly piece of meat. I suppose I had been more concerned with the puzzle that the Ring had posed to me. Looking out into the ghostly forest now, utterly still but rife with the far off noise of unfamiliar animals, I brought these events back out to be looked over more closely.

If you had asked me to name one thing that was least found in the character of a hobbit, the only reason murder would not have sprung immediately to mind is precisely because it was so unthinkable. We are a gentle folk, for the most part, although fierce when roused, if I and a few of the Tookish lads I have come to know since my rise to power are any example (I refer to Frodo's cousins, and of course, his fondest and most loyal companion, Samwise Gamgee – a more able bodyguard I have never seen). That I had spilled the blood of a thinking, talking creature, however pitiful, was still something of a shock to me. But then, I rationalised, the only reason that hobbits had not done such a thing in decades was that we had no need to. Gandalf himself had reminded me of the tales of my ancestors who had fought goblins and orcs in defence of the Shire. And I had killed both Gollum and that orc of Azog's for the same kind of reasons.

Gollum had threatened to eat me, after all.

I like to think of myself as a practical-minded fellow, and so it was not too much work to reassure myself that I had done only what needed to be done, and even if it was something that most of the Shire would have roundly disapproved of, they would have disapproved of adventures in general, and this was shaping up to be rather exciting and certainly fascinating and even perhaps profitable in the end, so what did they know anyway.

My dwarven comrades certainly didn't have any problems with killing things that needed to be killed, and since they had rather more experience with the whole adventuring business than I did, I would just have to follow their example.

As for this business with the Ring, the One Ring, as it had told me it was called... It may have belonged to this Mairon fellow once upon a time, but it was clear enough that he was either dead by this point, or had lost it a long time ago, so it was not as though it could really be called _his_ anymore. In any case I _was_ a burglar now, so stolen property was really my bailiwick and so it _ought_ to be in my hands. I did not entirely trust the Ring either when it said that its master was still alive and residing somewhere to our south. Nor did I know what to make of all this about it 'choosing' me somehow, or about the condition of my mind. Certainly I wasn't about to go gallivanting off to take it back to Mairon, whoever he was, if he did exist.

Now that I put some thought to it, hadn't Gandalf told me about some dark fortress belonging to an evil spirit or sorcerer of some kind, located in the south? Maybe it really was possible that Mairon did live still, in some form or another. Even if that was true though, I had no intention of giving anything to anyone that Gandalf had so clearly said was bad news. Oh no, I would be staying well away from him, if I could very much help it! There would be enough of that kind of thing when we came across Smaug.

Indeed, that was just another reason why it was so important that I came to grips with the Ring's powers. If we really did end up having to fight a dragon, we would likely need all the help we could get. And even if whoever had owned the thing was an unpleasant sort, the Ring itself was surely just a kind of tool, no more good or evil than a sword, merely dependant on whose hands were wielding it. My hands ought to be capable enough.

So that all made a great deal of sense, to my mind. I had made as much sense of things as I was able, and it all seemed very logical and sensible. I would do what was necessary for the good of the Company, and the Ring would just have to shut up and like it. If this Mairon showed up trying to take it back (though quite how he would find out I had no idea) I would just have to give him a sharp sting with my sword and tell him very firmly that it was hardly my fault if he was so careless with his possessions.

With all this settled and my thoughts at peace, I made myself comfortable until it was time to wake Dori for his turn on watch. The night was tolerably cool, and I was secure in the knowledge that my decisions up until now had been the right ones. Yes, this quest was actually going quite well at the moment!

The next day we finally managed to find some firewood that was dry enough to burn, which was a stroke of luck. Two nights without light were hard enough to bear, and there had been some thought given to trying to fell one of the smaller trees, if they could find one that was suitable, or perhaps to lop off some low-lying branches. Dwalin's axes would have been quite up to the task, but it would have taken up valuable travelling time during the day, and been impossible in the pitch darkness of Mirkwood's nights – too easy to miss, and perhaps cause some injury that could not then be tended until morning. A little before sunset however, Kili's keen eyes spotted a fallen tree a little way off the path, but close enough that Thorin felt safe enough to give permission to inspect it. The dead branches had not yet become prey to mould or dampness from the earth, and were much easier to break than those living.

Enough was collected at that point that we each ended up carrying a reasonable amount stuffed wherever about our persons we could fit it, thrust under the straps of our packs, tucked into belts, tied into bundles and slung over shoulders, even simply cradled in our arms. It was awkward, and made me somewhat inclined to grumble, although I resisted the impulse, so it was a good thing that we only had another hours walk before the light once again became too dim to go on.

"Get the fire started," Thorin ordered, as one by one we dropped our loads in the centre of the piece of path we had chosen for our campsite. Bombur got out his flints and started to sweep a space clear of leaves and moss, doing his best to uncover the stone and gravel base of the trail, long overgrown since the time it was first made. Kindling we had, it seemed, and it was not long at all before the flames rose up. I found it surprisingly comforting, considering the fact that with the Ring the darkness was no obstacle to me, but then I suppose in the moment it reminded me rather of home, of nights sitting toasting bread on a fork by my hearth before I went to bed, or reading books that I just couldn't put down. It was a little taste of the Shire, the more so because we had been without for a few nights. Odd, how much a difference those two nights made.

Thorin watched the process from a little distance, his arms crossed over his chest. Although his gaze followed what Bombur was doing, his thoughts seemed to be far away. Probably fixed on the Lonely Mountain, as they so often were, the prize at the end of our journey. I went over and cleared my throat loudly. When this failed to get any reaction, quite without thinking about it, I nudged him in the side, hard enough to be felt through his armour. Of course after I'd done it I realised that one hardly goes around elbowing royalty, but he just blinked as though coming out of a trance and looked at me.

"Um," I stammered for a moment, still aghast at my own temerity. He might be teaching me swordplay, but that did not mean we were friends. After all, it was only a week ago he had a very low opinion of me indeed. "Are we going to have another of my lessons tonight?"

"Yes," he said. "It is well that you reminded me. Indeed, perhaps you are ready to start accustoming your arm to the weight of a real weapon."

Personally I did not believe that my fumbling attempts at fending off his attacks had progressed that much, but I couldn't deny that the sticks we practised with were much, much lighter than my own blade. It might have been of elven make, but for all the grace and elegance of their people, elves were hardly weaklings. Whether it was a letter-opener or the first blade of some young elfling, its owner would not have had the trouble I did wielding it.

I _had_ noticed myself becoming stronger over the course of our travels. It was all this walking, carrying heavy packs. I'd enjoyed strolling in the countryside at home, but it hardly compared to going from morning to night with only a rest for lunch and perhaps for a small fortifying snack if I was lucky. No second breakfast, brunch, afternoon tea or supper either. Small wonder I had lost weight and put on, if not quite muscle, then a certain sinewy-ness. It _had_ been hard at first, but with all the excitement of nearly being killed by orcs and wargs and whatever Gollum had been, fewer meals didn't seem like such a terrible hardship in the grand scheme of things.

"What would you have me do with it?" I asked Thorin. "I'm not sure it would be wise to have me waving it about if you only have a stick, and I am sure to be clumsy enough to drop it and cut half my fingers off if I have to try and fend off Orcrist."

Thorin laughed at that, a gruff chuckle that seemed almost surprised out of him. "I do not mean to have you using that blade in combat Bilbo, at least not quite yet. You remember the exercises I had you do at the beginning; merely repeat those for now, and we shall see how long you can last before your arm tires."

With a little shock of surprise, I wondered if this had been the first time he had actually used my first name. Usually it was Master Hobbit, or Master Burglar, or Mister Baggins. Not Bilbo. Something in my stomach gave a little flutter, but I put it down to not having eaten yet.

I took off my jacket for ease of movement, since it was warm enough with the fire and the remaining heat of the day to go without, and drawing my sword, began to go through the basic motions of attacking and blocking over and over under Thorin's watchful eye. My waistcoat and shirt were decidedly looser around the middle than they had been at the start of this trip, but I still had a respectable amount of paunch. 'Never trust a thin hobbit', as my mother used to say.

I was just starting to work up something of a sweat and a growing burn in my arms when something like a large moth fluttered past my face. I brushed it aside, but it was quickly followed by another, and then another. In moments the air was full of them, whirling around the campfire and plunging into the flames where they burnt up with loud pops. I yelled as they swarmed past my head, getting tangled in my hair, grazing past my cheeks with their horrid-feeling wings. I wasn't the only one. I heard swearing in Kuzdul.

"It's the light!" Bofur shouted, or at least I think it was his voice. "The fire is drawing them in!"

I fumbled my way towards the campfire, half-blinded by the thicket of dark flapping wings, and then bit by bit the light went out. Bifur and Bombur had scattered the burning logs with spear and ladle, and doused the embers in dirt. Blackness overtook everything, but the noise of fluttering gradually faded away, and there were no longer nasty insect wings brushing against my skin.

"What _was_ that!" somebody shouted.

I reached for the Ring in the pocket of my waistcoat and slipped it on. The Company was scattered around our little stretch of the trail, fumbling in the dark to find each other. Only half of the beds had been laid down; the fire had only been on for a little more than half an hour, and we had expected to have its light for the rest of the night. Looking up at the trees I could see a last few moths fluttering around in the branches, but mostly the air was clear again.

"More of the forest's evil," Thorin said. "And now we're back in this unnatural darkness that defeats even a dwarf's eyes."

Everyone managed to find each other again, and enough organisation was reached to start getting the camp in order. There was not time for much of this however before yet more trouble came to call. Ori looked up from where he was setting out his bedroll and let out a great yell, stumbling backwards and falling on his rear.

"Look," he cried, "there's eyes between the trees!"

Not just eyes. I wasn't sure exactly what the others were able to make out, but with the ghostly sight that the Ring gave me I could see that there were animals everywhere. Deer, foxes, badgers, wolves, wild boar, and wildcats packed between the trees, squirrels filling their branches, and lurking behind them all, something chitinous and insectoid that I could not fully make out. Nor did I want to. Their eyes glowed as Beorn's had, but this light was somehow unclean and unpleasant. It made the skin tighten along my spine, and the hair on my feet rise up. The silent watchers did not move or make any sound, despite the shouts of fear and astonishment from the Company.

"Stand ready," Thorin called. Orcrist was drawn, softly glowing to my eyes with the same kind of light that my blade gave out when goblins were near. I realised that it must be some marker of their elvish origin that the Ring was letting me see.

All of the dwarves had their weapons in their hands now, even Ori with that little slingshot of his. Thorin shouted out to me. "Bilbo, are you well? Follow the sound of my voice!"

It was not as though been very far away from him when Ori called out, and of course I could see perfectly well. Nor as far as I could see did we appear to be in any immediate danger, but I couldn't tell him that without explaining all about the Ring, and I was reluctant to do that until I understood all about it myself. I trotted over to him and touched his shoulder lightly to let him know where I was.

"Here I am," I said, and was rather unceremoniously grabbed and shoved behind the dwarven prince. By means of a number of quiet words in Khuzdul, before I quite knew it the others had formed a circle around the burned out remains of our campfire, and I was in the middle of it. I felt rather displeased. Hadn't I already proved that I wasn't quite as useless in a fight as they had all thought? Although perhaps after watching my less than outstanding performance during Thorin's lessons, they believed they had reason to be concerned.

It was a long and tense time after that before anyone started to relax. As far as I could tell none of the wildlife moved at all during however long it was. Their eyes kept glowing in that unnerving way, as if their stillness was not unnatural enough. But even the toughest dwarf wasn't up to standing wary and ready for battle for the whole night, and since no attack came, eventually Thorin had to admit that at least some of them ought to get some rest.

The watch was tripled that night, and as I slipped the Ring off and stowed it back in my pocket so that I would not be invisible if the sun rose before I did, I saw the eyes, just the eyes, glowing in the darkness. Like a hundred tiny lanterns, like fireflies but that they did not move.

I confess I did not sleep well.

We saw no sign that we were being watched or followed during the next day, but that night the eyes were there once again even though Thorin had made the decision that we would not light a fire. It seemed we had gotten the attention of some force within Mirkwood, and now we had it, it would not easily look away.

The Ring was still in its moody silence, but given what had happened, I knew I had to talk to it. If persuasion would not work, I would simply have to try pain again, if that was what it took to get a reaction. Thus that night, ignoring the burning and tiredness in my arms from the sword practise Thorin had once again put me to, I sat with my hands in my lap, cradling the Ring where it sat on my finger.

_We are going to talk, you and I,_ I told it, in the firmest way I knew how. This was important, and the stubborn streak in me wasn't going to stand for being ignored any more.

I got no reply, but then I wasn't expecting one quite yet. It was a funny little quirk of the mind that allowed me to connect my thoughts, my will, to the Ring, as though I had grown insubstantial limbs, tendrils almost. As a creeping vine that winds across the earth as it grows, so was the link that bound us. I felt for the roots of that vine in the back of my head, and there it was, right where I had left it.

Hobbits are not much given to anger, more a very strong irritation if the situation calls for it, such as your nice, tidy home being invaded by unexpected dwarves. However it is also true that hobbits do not generally have much to be angry about, other than those little disagreements that arise between family members, or unfriendly neighbours. Since coming on this adventure I had been exposed to such violence and unfamiliar danger and things entirely out of my scope of knowledge save that found inside books, that anger was not quite the stranger it once was. I thought about how I'd felt being chased by orcs and wargs, about the surge of emotion that had quite taken me over seeing Thorin in danger, about how terrible it must be to be without hearth and home for so long that your young kin were not even born when it was lost...

Yes, I thought of all that, and anger came easily. I fed it, hot and burning, down the length of that insubstantial link, and felt the Ring scream. It writhed in agony, turning serpentine coils within the length of itself. I did not particularly like doing this to it, but it hadn't left me with much other choice.

_Only do what I say and all this can stop,_ I told it.

_False master!_ the thing whimpered, _Not Mairon my maker. And it expects me to obey it? A tiny mortal worm grubbing in the dirt instead of a glorious being of eternal flame? I have not stooped so low!_

_I rather think you have_, I said hotly. _After all, I own you now, I found you in the gloom and you might have stayed down there for another hundred years or more if I hadn't. I'd call _that_ grubbing in the dirt, not living in a nice smial. I can keep fighting with you until a dragon eats me or something else unfortunate happens, or you can do what I tell you to!_

_No!_

Well, what was I supposed to do about that except keep on hurting it? I didn't see any other way of proceeding. Of course, it got rather tiring to keep on being angry after a while, so I had to give up and go to bed. Still, I had a slight feeling that I was wearing the Ring down, so I felt that I had managed to get something done that night.

Things went on in a similar fashion for the next week or so. The utter darkness of the night coupled by the watchful eyes was growing tiresome for all of the Company, if least so on myself. We still had food, but we had not even reached the river that we had been warned of yet and the packs were half empty. Water too was becoming a worry. We had not anticipated the heat of the close and stifling air under the thick foliage, and so we needed much more than was sustainable. I knew the responsibility of it was weighing heavily on Thorin and Balin.

As the only one of us with a bow, Kili tried several times to bring down one of the squirrels that we occasionally saw during the day, as did Ori with his slingshot. It was no easy task, for they were fast, very fast indeed, but eventually one fell pierced by a dwarven arrow. Bombur was allowed to set a fire during the day to cook a stew from it with a little of our precious water, but when tasted it was foul and rank like it had been sitting in the sun for days. I tried my best to force it down, as did everyone else, for food was food, but even my hobbit hunger couldn't keep it in my stomach. I went off a little way to be sick behind a tree.

It was at the end of this week that we reached the river. It was wide; too far to jump even had any of us been Gandalf's height and thus had his long legs. It flowed slowly, a lazy sprawl of dark, deep water. Just the sight of it made my throat tight for a drink; we had been on short rations the past day, and I knew that was only sure to continue. It had been roughly two weeks since we entered the forest, and being very careful we might just make it another two, if we were lucky.

"It looks so lovely," Bofur sighed, echoing my thoughts. "Pity it's cursed."

"How to get across, that's the problem," Balin said, stroking the forks of his beard.

"Looks like there used to be a bridge here." Gloin pointed to the rotting remains of pillars and planks that I had taken for broken tree stumps and decaying branches. "Can't ford it, of course, if that man spoke true."

"We have no reason to doubt his word," Thorin said, although I could see he wished otherwise. I was beginning to find it a little easier to read him due to all the time we were spending together. I went up to the verge to take a closer look. It was getting on towards inevitable night, and the far bank was shadowed and difficult to make out. I was tempted to take out the Ring for a better look, but it wasn't yet dark enough to hide something as obvious as my invisibility.

I'm not sure quite what it was that caused me to spot the boat. Perhaps a trick of the light, a passing breeze stirring leaves enough to letting the fading rays of the sun through. Or perhaps it was a little of the Ring's magic, already starting to cling to me. Either way, there it was, our way across.

"There's a boat over there," I called out to the others. "Though quite how we're going to get it over _here_ I don't know."

Thorin, Fili and Kili came to stand next to me, each peering out into the quickly gathering gloom. "I think I can just about make it out," Kili said. "Yes, about twelve or so yards, where the bank bulges out a little."

"I can see nothing," Thorin said, "but do you think you could throw a line that far, Kili?"

"If not," Fili said, "I'll throw, and he can guide me."

Decision made, I was astonished at how quickly the dwarves burst into motion, fishing around in packs for some odd bits of metal which Bofur bent into curved hooks with his mattock, six or seven casual blows which made the thing look much easier than it must have been. These three hooks were bound together with heavy wire that Bifur appeared to have been keeping in his pockets, and attached to a rope. Grappling hook thus assembled, Kili got ready to throw it.

It took several attempts, but eventually the young dwarf managed to get it caught on something in the boat. A few hearty tugs on the line proved that it wasn't about to slip off in the middle of towing it over, and so everybody took a hold of the rope.

"It might be tethered to the bank," Dwalin said. "But I'll wager if so, strong dwarvish rope and dwarvish muscle will pull it free."

He proved to be correct in both the particulars of that. With three great heaves the boat came free and scudded over the water towards us with unexpected speed. Not being of much muscle or weight, I was not pulling on the rope and thus was free to dart forwards and catch it before the hook slipped loose.

"We shall have to go by fours," Thorin said, inspecting the little craft. "It is not big enough for more. Although perhaps it is would be best if Dwalin and Bombur go together and last."

"I'm always last, and I don't much like it," Bombur replied.

"There must be some downsides to your commendable stoutness," Bofur told his brother, smiling.

"True, true," Bombur agreed, and said no more about it.

Once again the hook was thrown across the river, although by Fili this time for the extra few yards his arm could propel it. Tangled in tree branches and anchored on our side of the water by Bifur's boar spear driven the length of its blade into the earth, it served very well as a line by which to pull ourselves across. It reminded me rather of Bucklebury Ferry, which I had used several times visiting relatives in that part of the Shire, if rather more precarious.

It seemed as though we should all get across without incidence, but unfortunately fate, as ever it seemed, was not so kind to us. Dwalin had retrieved Bifur's spear and had wound the rope up in the bottom of the boat while he and Bombur came over. He had just jumped out onto the bank with it in his arms when there came the sudden sound of hooves beating on the path ahead. A white hart came charging towards us – no ordinary beast either, for its hide shone with the light of the full moon. It might not have been touched by the dark power of the south, but it was touched by _some _power all the same.

"Fili, quickly," Thorin commanded, and when his nephew didn't take up his bow with enough speed, the dwarven prince snatched it from his hands, fitted an arrow with a practised ease that I would not have expected from him, and let fly. It was a good shot, and it took the beast in the breast. It faltered for a moment, and then gathering its legs beneath it, sprang so high and so far that it leapt quite across the river. It disappeared into the gloom beneath the trees, but its hoof beats soon faltered and grew silent.

It was then that I noticed what had happened to Bombur, and shouted out loud. "Bombur has fallen in! Bombur is drowning!" He must have had the bad luck to have been just climbing out of the boat when the deer brushed past him in its flight, putting him off balance and letting his footing slip from beneath him.

How conscious he still was at that point I do not know, but we could see him floating in the current, and he did not sink. Bifur grabbed the grappling hook out of Dwalin's hands and threw it to his cousin. Whether it was the last moment before the sleep claimed him, or just some natural reflex, Bombur's hand fastened around the rope all the same, and everyone helped to draw him back to solid ground.

Soaking wet and fast asleep, he was pulled from the waters. The curse Beorn had warned us of had claimed him, and the boat had vanished entirely downstream, taking two of the packs and water flasks with it. On such short rations as we were, this was a loss we could sorely take. And with the boat gone, we couldn't venture back over the river to recover the hart Thorin had killed for its meat. In short, we were a very sorry lot.

"Well what do we do now?" Kili asked, still looking rather put out from having his bow snatched. "Is there any way to wake him up or do we have to drag him around?"

Bifur said something that sounded rather unfriendly in Khuzdul. Kili looked mutinous. For myself, I was beginning to wonder if – were I able to get the Ring to cooperate with me – there might not be something I could do. This curse was meant to hail from whatever evil thing Gandalf said lurked in the south, and while I could not be sure there was any link there with what the Ring claimed was its old master, magic was magic. Gandalf could not help us here, but perhaps the Ring might know some counter-charm or remedy we could use.

"We must fashion something to carry him," Thorin said. "Dwalin will cut some staves, and with my cloak I have no great need of my bedroll, which will go some way towards making it."

We tarried for about an hour getting the pallet together, by which point of course it was dark, and we could not have gone on anyway. I resolved to work on the Ring with as much application of my will as was possible that night. For the first time, I really _needed_ to know what else it could do, although I doubted greatly it would be the last.

Much to my frustration, I could not force the Ring to submit to my will that night, although I was sure that as with each time I tried this, I _was_ weakening it. I consoled myself with the thought that surely it could not be too much longer, but that was little comfort in the morning with Bombur still stuck deep in unbreakable sleep. The weight of what little food and water we had left was redistributed in the packs so that whichever four were bearing the litter would go otherwise unburdened, and we set off into the summer heat that was quickly beginning to rise.

I wondered how much further we had to go. It had been my somewhat unclear impression that the cursed river was half way through the forest, in which case we were going to have a very hard time of things indeed before too long. We had lost supplies in the boat, and carrying around Bombur was far from an easy job, although being so slight and short, I did not have to take a turn, but merely had to bear a heavier pack. I was feeling tired by the time we made camp, but many of the slighter dwarves, Ori amongst them, looked far worse.

I would not have thought Thorin to be in any mood for sword lessons that evening, after our recent troubles, but as we turned to sparring again so as to give my muscles a chance to rest up a little I saw him relax as we danced back and forth with our lengths of wood. I understood then that this was less about teaching me in that moment and more about giving his mind a rest from considering the coming travails that waited on our path. I was only glad to be able to give him this much. I knew it could not be easy, shouldering the burden that he did. He might have been exiled for many long years, but he was still a prince, a king in search of his kingdom, and he acted like it.

So it was that after that I went to my work upon the Ring with renewed vigour once the darkness had fallen, and although it remained stubborn to my will I knew – though quite how was still mysterious to me – that there was only a sliver of its strength remaining against me. I would break it, and have the use of its full knowledge and powers, and with that assurance I slept well through the rest of the night.

The next day was only more of the same, an uncomfortably sweaty trek without the slightest hint of a breeze to wick away the damp from our skin. I kept my thoughts on the weight of the Ring in my pocket at all times, eagerly awaiting nightfall. I was sure I would have it then, that I would best it. Indeed I began to fancy I could almost feel the link between us now even though it was not on my finger.

Food was growing very thin. We had rationed it as much as we could, but dwarves had appetites nearly as big as a hobbit's, and it was difficult enough for them to take turns in carrying Bombur's weight without sapping their strength further with sparse victuals. I forced myself to take only very little. I was not so burdened. I noticed however that Thorin was doing the same, for I confess it was hard for me _not_ to watch him at times, fascinated with his noble mien, his careful braids at the side of his face, the powerful strength he held half in check when we sparred. I did not feel able to speak to him about this self-sacrifice though, for surely he knew his own business, and no doubt it was in his nature to see that his people had enough, but I could not help worrying that he was taking too many turns carrying the litter to so stint himself.

It did not overly surprise me therefore that we had no lesson _that_ night, for Thorin looked exhausted, though he hid it well. I resolved that the extra time would allow me to put all my energy into mastering the Ring, for only then could I help the situation by finding some way to wake Bombur up. Once again I took the Ring out and sat with it on my finger, concentrating all of my mind upon it.

_Have you not yet had enough of pestering me, little crawling thing?_ the Ring asked me. I noted that it sounded tired.

_You may stop my 'pestering' at any time, _I replied. _Merely do what I ask of you, and we can stop all of this. _

It hesitated before its latest denial, which was much more than had happened before. I began to grow excited. It was on the end of its tether, I knew it. I reached out for the link, like a vine grown swollen and thick with all I had put into it. The roots were wrapped deeply about the both of us now, entrenched and grasping, near impossible to separate. No matter what the Ring might claim, we were bonded to each other, for good or ill.

Once again I let my anger come, easier each time. It soaked and flooded down the vine-link, a river of dark, poisonous water. I envisioned it much like that which had so recently afflicted Bombur.

With the advantages of hindsight I can now see that the Ring was laying a trap for me. Yes, it was very much weakened, alone with only Gollum to draw sustenance from for hundreds of years, worn down by my own stubborn and ferocious hobbit mind. It seems to be a fact, from what I have learned over the years, that those born of earth such as we and the dwarves are much less prone to fall under the spell of the Rings of power than Ilúvatar's children the elves, or that most suggestible race; men. However, for all that the Ring could not bend _me_ to its will, it was not without defences of its own to try and prevent me doing the reverse.

Instead of the usual pattern of events, the grinding battle of my anger against its stubbornness, I found myself falling as if into a deep well, into some unlit and sunless chasm where the very air around me was full of a malevolent and wrathful _presence_. I was not aware of myself at this point in the sense of having a body. I could not touch, or see, or smell anything around me, indeed I seemed merely to float there as I imagine fish do in a lake.

_Are you still so arrogant now, little thing?_

It was the voice of the Ring, coming from all around me. I grit my teeth in anger. It had tricked me somehow, and now we were playing on its turf. Whatever dream-world or place of magic this was, it had the best of me when it came to knowledge. I was moving blind, in more than one sense.

_We'll see how this goes,_ I said, managing to twist my sense of self around despite the sense of weightlessness. I imagined myself a formless spirit, just as the Ring had always seemed to be inside its golden home, and now I wondered if that was indeed what I was, and perhaps even where. Certainly I didn't think it possible that the Ring could have transported me anywhere bodily, so presumably this was to be a duel of the minds, perhaps even of the souls.

The first strike did not come as a surprise only because I was expecting _something_ like it to happen. I could not predict from where or how, however, and so it still took me off my guard and swept all the breath out of me in a wave of pain, although how I could be breathing without a real body I didn't know. Force of habit, I suppose. I reached out mentally and tried to grasp the tail of whatever it was that had swung by me, but I was too slow.

It seemed that the Ring had no difficulty seeing here. Again it made me angry, to be so off balance, not to mention having fallen for its trick. It came to me that perhaps I could use that anger. I had before, after all, in my struggles with the Ring. I gathered that anger, forced it into a sharp and hot point and thrust it out in front of me. Light shone out, red as hot coals. I looked forth and saw the shape of my sword hanging in the nothing before me. The glow was not the goblin-warning blue, but it let me see well enough, though there was little there to perceive.

The Ring made a furious hiss somewhere out of sight.

_Not as defenceless as you thought?_ I said, and heard it ring out like a bell. Yes, I had power here, although the Ring had clearly been hoping I wouldn't realise it.

It came in to attack again, and this time I was looking out for it. I thought to try and use senses other than those of my body, and so I felt the sense of the Ring that I had become so familiar with over these past weeks as it approached. I swung my sword and twisted as it passed, and scored a line down an insubstantial _something_ that bled red light much like that of my blade.

We fought then, the Ring and I, a battle for dominance and for more than that, for the very independence of our selves. Having come so deep into this stronghold, I had no illusions about what would happen if I failed here. The Ring would own me, as surely and as deeply as I was striving to own it. We bleed and we suffered, it tearing at me with what might have been claws or teeth or knives, and I striving again and again to bring my blade to bear against it. It seemed an eternity like that. I grew tired and slow, but so did it. I hurt it less and less, but so did it do to me.

I do not know how long it took, but eventually no more attacks came. I rested, aching and in pain, and waited for what was to come. Finally the Ring approached, slinking out of the dark. It was shadow-formed, but walked on two legs and had the shape of a man or perhaps an elf. It seemed somehow long and thin, regal, stretched out. Its eyes were fire, and it was crowned with something delicate and sharp. Waves of sleek hair like copper glinted, just visible. It threw a pair of wicked daggers down at my feet, or whereabouts I thought of as my feet. They were wet with my blood.

_I cannot last against you,_ it said, and it sounded like despair. _Perhaps Mairon will win me back when he comes back into his strength, as I am sure he will one day. But you have bested me in will and might of mind, and if I must have a mortal for a master, at least I can say it might be made into a worthy one. _

So saying, it knelt and bowed its head to me, and I felt strength – as if a river of fire – fill me up to the brim and burst over. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes upon Mirkwood's night.

Immediately I became aware of how strange I felt. Before, in that dark in-between space I had been drained and exhausted, but now I was bursting with vitality. It was as though every muscle in my body was filled with energy and wanted nothing more than to get up and go, to run, to fight, to simply _do something_. It was an effort in itself to remain sitting where I was. As I turned my gaze up and looked around at the animals watching our camp from the ghost-shadows beneath trees they began to flee. One by one they turned and were gone, all save that glint of multiple dark eyes far off and behind them all.

So this was what it meant to be master of the Ring. It felt... wonderful. A precious prize in every way worth having. I got up, stretching, buzzing with the sheer pleasure of being alive. The Ring's mind nestled in the back of my head like a warm banked fire, comforting rather than burning.

_Well now,_ I said. _I can't say I was expecting this, but certainly I'm not going to argue._

_Do not make me regret my decision,_ the Ring replied, but without much venom. _Now the first thing we must do, if you are going to be any kind of Master at all, is teach you at least the basics of magic-craft. That is what you want to know, isn't it, to wake this servant of yours from his slumber._

_Bombur is not my servant,_ I corrected it, _but yes, that is what I want_.

I could feel a certain amount of discontent from the Ring. _What master does not have servants? _

_I had a gardener back in the Shire, if that counts. _

_Hardly fit for one who owns me,_ the Ring said. _One servant, and that far away and of no use to anyone. No matter. It will be easy enough to bend these dwarves to your will._

_Now wait one moment!_ I exclaimed. _There'll be no bending of anyone to my will._

_Saving myself, of course,_ the Ring said, with a certain sarcasm. I was aware that it was not best pleased with my refusal, but nor did it say anything else on the matter for the moment. I ambled over to where Bombur was nestled still on his litter, snoring like a carpenter's saw. I blinked, and there it was, laid out before me. It was something like a web of black threads, sticky and thick with some dark liquid, treacle-y and unpleasant. It clustered most over his heart and forehead, forming knots over his eyes. I did not want to touch it.

_You will have to,_ the Ring told me. _First you must understand it, and then you must unravel it. It is, if not Mairon's work himself, akin to his power. Will you still not go to Dol Guldur, for your curiosity if nothing else? _

It was right that I was far more curious than a hobbit ought to be. But I was not stupid, and by the only half-hopeful tone in its voice, the Ring knew it was fooling no-one. If Mairon did exist, and was living in that old fortress that Gandalf had spoken of, I'd be a fool indeed to go anywhere near it.

_Tell me how I understand this then,_ I said, ignoring the suggestion.

I felt the Ring's prompting then, and so I reached out and held my hands just a little above those two great concentrations of head and heart. There is no good way of describing the senses that the Ring provides in any tongues of Dwarves, Elves or Men. I suspect only the Maiar and their ilk can truly speak of such things, and I suspect from what I am told that they more likely sing it. Nevertheless, I will say that it was something like a bad taste in the back of the mouth, something like a woven pattern of a tapestry felt in the dark, something like a distant-heard melody. I reached out, and felt around at it, and began to understand how the curse was put together.

_You see,_ the Ring said, _with me, it is not so hard. _

_With you, yes,_ I said. _But you can't tell me that anyone else would be able to do this. _

_Only wizards and bearers of other Rings of Power,_ it replied, then added with great smugness, _and all other Rings are mine to command. _

_So how do I break this? _I asked.

_Like so_. Again it moved through me, stretching mind through mind, a curious co-mingling that was certainly not unpleasant. It showed me how to move thoughts into patterns that brought forth echoes in some half-way place between ghost-world and material-world. How to pluck and tease away thread from thread, throw discord into harmony that then broke apart into jangling chords that meant nothing and thus faded away.

The black web dissolved away. Bombur rose into real sleep, natural sleep, and settled more comfortably upon his bed. I sank back upon my heels, some new part of me tired out with unexpected usage, just as my muscles had once been unused to wielding a sword. With practise, I was sure this would grow stronger as they were.

_Well done, for a beginner_, the Ring said, retreating back into the recesses of my mind. _Oh, I shall teach you such spells as you have never known and never could have imagined. So many long years I and Mairon had together, learning all that time. I have so much to show you, my little Master. _

_Not tonight_, I replied, feeling tiredness begin to drag at me. _Right now I'm going to bed._

That morning I woke up earlier than was my wont, partly at the Ring's prompting, for it wished me to see the effect of our mage-craft the night before. Near all the dwarves were up and starting to gather the camp to make a start of the day when Bombur sat up very suddenly, startling everyone, holding his head and blinking at the dawn's light.

"Where am I and what are we all doing in a forest?" he asked, sounding very muddled indeed. Bifur and Bofur rushed over to him at once, Thorin not very far behind them, and it soon came out that he remembered nothing at all since that night at my _smial_, and that only because he was very complimentary about the quality of my cheese. Breaking camp was forced to be delayed whilst Bombur was filled in on everything that had happened on their quest since, and it was not easy to get him to believe all the outrageous happenings of it either, at least not until Bifur became very insistent about it. Presumably he was a dwarf not much given to frivolity.

"And you mean to say that we have hardly any food left at all?" he exclaimed, once the situation with our victuals was explained to him. "Oh, why did I have to wake up? I was having beautiful dreams about food; sometimes I was back in the halls under Ered Luin with you brother, and cousin, and there was beer and cheese and roast pork and spiced sausages... sometimes we had reached Erebor and won it and we were feasting on all the old, traditional recipes, and sometimes I was in a forest very much like this once only all lit with lanterns, and there was a king I couldn't see sat under the trees and offering me sweets made with honey, and fine venison and wild boar..."

"Enough of that," Thorin said sharply, looking around at the hungry and wistful expressions that had come over everyone's faces. He was right; it was bad enough having little to eat without being reminded of all the wondrous things that could be had under other circumstances. "At least you have woken up in good health, aside from your forgetfulness. Things could have been much worse."

"I'm just glad that you're all right," Bofur said, clasping arms with his brother and pulling him into a hug that was soon joined by Bifur.

We set out with lightened hearts, although it did not do as much as it could have on account of our also unfortunately lightened packs. Bare crumbs were left at this point, the end of the third week in the forest. Water we had for another week, but that was little comfort. The dangers of our journey were likely only to grow rather than decrease once we left Mirkwood, and our Company could ill afford for its members to grow weak through starvation.

_Is there anything that might be done about this? _I asked the Ring. _Do you know how much further there is to go?_

_That much is not within my power,_ it admitted. _Though if you claimed them for your servants, I could offer them the same strength that flows through your veins. Take them over, and they shall not falter, not even should their feet bleed and their bones crack from the effort of their marching. _

_No thank you!_ I exclaimed. That was not what I wanted at all.

_As you wish_.

Later that day we came to a lighter part of the forest, where the path wound downhill between the trunks of beech trees and the undergrowth was mostly replaced by grass and moss. The aspect of the place in general did not improve much however. The more open space gave the impression that we were walking through an endless hall strewn with tall pillars. The dwarves seemed to favour it more than I.

It was about at this point that I became slowly aware that we were being followed. It was not anything I saw that made me realise it, but rather it was the input of my new supernatural senses, the Ring's power within me. Something was watching us, coolly interested, a presence in the shadows that dogged our steps. I did not sense malice from it, merely curiosity. There was little I could do about it for now, in any case.

It was about that time that we first began to hear the singing, although at this point it was very faint and far off. I knew this sprung from a different source, not our mysterious watcher, for _they_ were much closer by. Still, it made me uneasy, as it did to the others. I did not trust it, and nor had I forgotten the other power in these woods, whatever had lent that moon-struck stag its strength.

We stopped for a rest at mid-day, but saved the last of our food for the onset of night. My belly began to growl with hunger, but to my surprise the Ring sent a tendril of its power down into me and soothed it. My appetite was quietened, and I no longer hankered after food any more than I would after a large meal. Nor was my strength waning as I might have expected, and I realised exactly what the Ring had meant earlier. I wished that I _could_ give the same to my friends, but the cost would be too high, I understood that instinctively.

Camp that night was a strained affair. Our last scraps were eaten in silence, and although I tried to refuse mine, Thorin merely shoved the bowl into my hands with an angry growl and a glare that told me to shut up and eat for my own good. No lessons that night, nor, I suspected, for any night until we had food again. It would be a waste of what little strength we were supposed to have. I wondered then if I should tell them about the Ring and what had happened, but something stopped me.

The same sort of something told me to stay up that night, after the others had fallen to sleep. Thorin had stopped organising a watch at that point, since there was nothing to see, and enough of the dwarves were light sleepers that they would be awakened by any noise that spelt incoming danger. What approached now was not danger however, nor did it make any sound.

A ghost of a man came through the trees, tall and clad in tattered robes that moved as though in a breeze even though the air was still. His face was gaunt, and a crown was upon his head. He bore a sword at his waist, and a cat-footed warg of an unfamiliar breed trotted at his heels, burdened with luggage. Only the warg was visible in the material plane.

_Angmar!_ The Ring said, with joyous happiness. _If Angmar is here, Mairon must have realised and come searching for me!_

This was hardly good news for me if so. Still, I stood my ground and waited for this Angmar to approach. He left the warg further off and strode closer with the measured tread of one accustomed to authority. We looked each other up and down for a very long moment. I noticed that he too wore a ring on his hand, shining with witch-light.

"This is the creature who has mastered the One?" Angmar eventually said, in a whispering voice that sounded like a dead thing. I realised then that this might, in fact, be true.

"Not what you were expecting?" I replied, careful to keep my voice calm. I did not want to show even a hint of weakness.

"_What_ are you?"

"A hobbit, if you must know. And what business is it of yours, in any case?"

"The Master of that Ring," Angmar said, with a curl of a ghostly lip, "is by my very nature Master of me also." It sounded like it cost him a lot to say it, and no wonder. "I knew at once that it had been claimed by another, and I was compelled to search you out. Now I have, and I have seen you."

It was the Ring that prompted me then to open my mouth and ask, "But where are your kin?"

"Dol Guldur has fallen," Angmar replied. "The White Council came, and the Necromancer was not yet strong enough to resist their combined powers. He commanded us to gather all we could and fly to the four winds. We meet in Mordor at the year's end, or such was our plan."

"And I suppose now I have complicated things rather," I said. I still was not entirely sure what Angmar was, or who and how many his 'kin might be. All I knew was that he was some servant of Mairon's – or 'the Necromancer' as he seemed to be calling himself. And now that I had mastered the Ring, I had in some sense taken charge of him as well, which was rather unexpected to say the least. He didn't seem too happy about the idea. I could feel the waves of disgust radiating off him as he spoke.

"So you have found the One when it has been lost for countless centuries." Angmar's skeletal hand clenched around the hilt of his sword in anger, but he made no move to draw it. I did not think he could. "You have mastered it, which no creature born of Arda should be able to do. Has separation sapped its power so much?"

"Perhaps you should answer some questions of my own before I say anything more," I said. "Like for instance, exactly what you are."

Angmar sighed in disgust, like a cold and biting wind. "I am Nazgûl. Mortal fool, do you know so little? What vicious accident of fate and chance put my existence into your power? What mockery of my strength, and my kin? We are the Nine, the Ring-Wraiths, the Kings and Lords of Undying, wielder of the Killing Blades, of far-off lands and times that are outside the pitiful ken of one such as you." He sneered. "We are the Riders, the Mages, the Black Witch-folk. And now we are bound to serve _you_. What titles have you earned in your short and miserable life?"

"Master of the One Ring, it seems," I replied, and I thought he _would _draw his sword then. But it would not pull forth from its sheath, and he eventually relaxed once more.

"What orders do you have for me then, _master_? What small endeavour spurs your steps through the Great-wood?"

"No orders for the moment," I replied. "And I am on a quest, if you must know. In fact, now I come to think on it, why don't you gather the rest of your Nine? I would like to meet them." And they would no doubt _not_ like to meet me, but I cared little about that.

Angmar sneered at me, but he bowed his head low and said, "As you wish." He turned on his heel and stalked away, disappearing with his pack-warg into the ghost-shadows of the night.

I waited until I was sure he was gone, and then I spoke to the Ring. _I take it from your silence that you no longer expect Mairon to come running to your rescue?_

_It seems I am lost to him for now,_ the Ring replied, despairing. _Mayhap in ages to come... we shall see. The Nazgûl are yours now, as I am yours, and we shall all have to make the best of it. At least you can say you have servants now, and so you are not such a disappointment. _

I hardly cared whether or not the Ring thought I was a 'disappointment' to it. It did strike me though that these creatures, Angmar and his fellows, would surely come in handy during the quest to come. He had certainly been confident enough in himself. Confident enough to take on a dragon? Perhaps not if he fled from Gandalf, who after all seemed more adept at crafting fireworks than slaying legendary beasts, but it sounded as though Gandalf had not been the only wizard attacking Dol Guldur, and I had few enough of the details to make any kind of judgement.

Either way, I was sure there would come _some_ use for them. If only to slip into places, as unseen as I could be.

Suitably satisfied by my evening's work, I went to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day the beech trees were replaced by oaks, and still the path wandered down. During our lunch stop I suggested that I might perhaps climb up one of the trees and see if I could make out the edge of the forest from where we were. With the strength the Ring gave me, it would be no great trial, and if the way ahead was not too far to go it would serve well to lift all our hearts. Thus Dwalin and Thorin hiked me up into the lowest boughs of a particularly massive oak, and up I went.

It was very pleasant up there above the leaf cover. I felt the breeze against my cheeks for the first time in too long. There was wildlife as well, great black butterflies that flapped their languid way around like dark floating clouds above a sea of green. What I could not see however, was any way out of the forest. Had I been thinking correctly I would have realised that we had not been coming down from high lands into lowland, but down the slopes of a valley whose walls rose around us and quite fouled all perspective. It was not so very far at all to the borders of the forest, yet from here it looked endless.

We were all in very foul moods when I came back down and told the others my bad news. We were parched and starving, and there was not one of us who was not thinking longingly of Beorn's halls, or of Rivendell's tables, or even, I dare say, of the purloined feast they had enjoyed at my expense in my own home – although I really only begrudged them it out of habit, for I should not have minded it all of that happened again.

It was in this sort of mind that we began to think about making camp that evening, and in such a mind that we glimpsed the sight of lights off in the distance between the trees. Everyone in the Company was wary, for it was some way off from the road, and even in our current states we remembered the warnings we had been given. Still, these were not the lights of any animal. Torches and fires meant people, and people would of necessity have food, and drink besides. Surely they would take pity on poor travellers who had lost their own provisions through nothing more than ill luck? I suspect Thorin would have had us wait and watch a while longer, but Bombur was muttering about dream-feasts under his breath and so our caution was soon flung to the non-existent winds.

Admittedly I hung back a little. I did not fear for my own safety, but I was beginning to perceive the strains of such song as echoed that we'd heard the day before, and I did not have hunger and thirst driving me to distraction. The Company crept closer, as silent as was possible for heavy-booted dwarven feet. We came to the edge of a clearing and saw a great gathering there, elven-folk dressed for hunting, seated on mossy stumps or on beautiful woven mats laid out on the leaf-litter, food and wine set out before them on the sward. Above the others, lying on soft cushions that padded a dead and hollowed-out tree like some natural throne, there was one elf with a crown of flowering branches, clad in a most impractical-seeming robe of silver, with dark brows and snow-blonde hair.

Thorin made a startled noise of utter disgust.

"We shall not go begging here," he said, and his words bore the most profound loathing that I had ever heard from him. Given that he had already told me the tale of his escape from Erebor on the day of the dragon's attack, this really ought to have been a clue for me.

There was a murmur of agreement from the older dwarves. "Still..." Balin said though, after a moment. "We will starve if we do not find something soon, and water is of more concern even than that."

"I will not debase myself before _him_," Thorin snarled. "But that does not mean we should not take a little something in payback for the debts we are owed."

I began to realise there was going to be trouble. Before I could make up my mind if I ought to try doing something about it, the dwarves were springing into action. Weapons drawn and held ready, they charged en mass into the clearing, and with nothing better to do I followed them.

There was a great flash of light, and I felt something come rushing over me. I had familiarised myself with the curse that had ensnared Bombur to a sufficient degree that I knew witch-craft when I felt it. Some spell had struck the others into place, and they stood like painted statues. I was unaffected, but I froze before my movement could betray me, and then very slowly reached for the Ring. The prince, or king, or whomever he was, rose to his feet with the sort of elegant motion that made him look like a tree moving in the wind. He approached the stricken Company, his court at his back. The hint of a smile graced his lips.

Gesturing to Thorin, he said something in Sindarin that elicited a round of laughter, and I felt hot anger stir in my breast. My questing fingers found my target, and the Ring practically leapt onto my hand. I was lucky enough that the shadows still concealed me sufficiently that my disappearance went unnoticed.

"But what are the Stunted Folk and their wandering princeling doing in the Greenwood?" the Elf-King said, and his lilting, scornful words were translated perfectly into my understanding. More of the Ring's powers, and a most useful one. "Come seeking to stir up trouble, we have no doubt. If the Shadow were not enough, now we have to put up with their dirty, ill-made selves befouling our Kingdom."

"You are right, my Lord Thranduil," one of the others said, and my rage grew to new heights. You can be sure I remembered being told of that name! This was the very elf who had abandoned Thorin's people to their fate, who had not even been willing to help evacuate the wounded from the area of Smaug's desolation. Thorin had made sure I knew how many had died in those first days who might else have lived with the aid of elvish medicine. And now he had the temerity to laugh at the returning King, to mock him and all his kin.

"Do you wish us to take them prisoner?" another of the court asked. My hand flew to the hilt of my sword. Let them try! But then of course, my better sense caught up with me. Even passing unseen, did I really think I could best a dozen or more elven warriors, all of whom had thousands of years experience to draw on? I wished I had not sent Angmar away. I could have used his blade now.

"Not yet," Thranduil replied. His haughty eyes raked over the still forms of the Company. The corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. "If they insist on blundering around in the dark, let them find what dangers await them there. It is not so far to the lair of a brood of Ungoliant's spawn, after all."

One of the elves near the back of the group was frowning. His clothes were as practical as most of the others but more finely appointed with delicate embroidery, and a light circlet graced with carved jade leaves was sitting at a slight angle upon his brow. "That seems... overly harsh," he said. "Should we not merely escort them under guard to the edge of the forest and send them on their way?"

"Thankfully my son, you have never had the unfortunate experience of meeting one of the Stunted Ones yet in all your years," Thranduil said. "There is no purpose in being merciful to them. They do not understand it. They will repay it with treachery." My gaze immediately flew between the pair of them, matching up the similarities. Yes, they both had the same odd mismatch of dark brows and snow-blonde hair, the same fineness of features. Yet it seemed this Prince had not quite the same hate in his heart as his father.

"Let no more be said upon the matter," the Elf-King said. "We have commanded it, and thus it shall be so. If by some chance or the will of fate they survive, then by all means shall they become our prisoners. Yet we do not think that will happen." His small smile was now quite ghoulish, and I hated him. Surely it would be possible for me to creep close enough to slip my sword up through his silky robe, under his ribs and into his heart. I could see the way to make the strike – the Ring was showing it to me, the sure culmination of Thorin's lessons.

I did not have time to put my plan into action. The elves split the air with whistles like the call of birds, and at their summons many tall, sleek horses came out from between the trees. The dwarves were heaved up and strapped onto their backs, their stone stillness become loose and limp, though they did not wake. Thranduil mounted a massive stag with huge spreading antlers like outstretched hands, and they headed off into the forest too fast for me to follow.

All was not yet lost, for I had the Ring. It might not be able to speed my feet as fast as a horse, but it made me strong and fast nevertheless, and by means of the more than natural senses it afforded me, I was able to track the elves passing by the melody and scent of the binding magic they had laid on my friends. As I ran I worried. I did not know quite what Ungoliant's spawn were, save that they were not good, and I had some faint memory of Radagast mentioning them at our meeting many weeks ago.

_Spiders_, the Ring told me. _Giant spiders. The countless young of Ungoliant the Great, She who is called Gloomweaver, She who ever hungers, She who wounded the bright trees of Valinor, She who had such might that She even once imprisoned Melkor the Black, from whom my Mairon learned the ways of greatness and power, and whom he cherished above all else that exists. _

I confess my heart grew cold with this. Spawn they might be only, but with such a mother that the Ring spoke of her in awed whispers... I feared for my friends, and for Thorin most of all. The thought that he might be going into such danger put my heart in my throat and cold iron in my belly. As I sped on, leaping over roots of trees and under low boughs with the ease of a running fawn, I called out to Angmar with the Ring's own song, a cry in the dark to him and all others who were kin to him and thus whom the melody would resonate within. I called to them, and only hoped they were near enough to heed me.

I learned later that the dwarves had known none of what happened between being stunned by that great blast of light and waking once again in darkness. They had stumbled about for some time, finding each other and then searching for me. Thorin had insisted they keep at it even after the first lights – trap lights, lights leading them on towards danger – appeared again in the distance. Oin and Bombur and Dori had convinced him that the best chance they had of finding me was to go towards those lights, and so go towards them they did, to similar end as the first time. Once more this happened, and – I am told, for he would not admit to it himself – Thorin's rage and fury grew ever more. He was quite out of his mind with worry for me, with was really rather flattering, and made me feel quite warm all over when I heard of it.

In any case, after the darkness fell over them again, they struggled on in the black for as long as they could before eventually admitting defeat. Even Thorin in all his Kingly majesty could not force them on any further. They settled down to sleep, and it was not long after that the first of the spiders must have come upon them.

By my reckoning it was about this point that the first of the Nazgûl reached me. I heard the patter of heavy paws coming up alongside me, and glanced over to see a ghostly figure astride a racing warg. It was clad in black robes woven with some kind of charm that made them visible where he was not, but the hood was thrown back to let me see his insubstantial face, long hair floating as though underwater quite at odds with the speed of our passage. It was not Angmar, but another of his brothers; Khamûl his lieutenant, as the Ring was swift to inform me.

"Master," he said, inclining his head to me with more respect than Angmar had. It was not at all difficult to hear his voice, even over the panting of his warg. "What is of such great import that you summon us with such urgency?"

"Elves have tricked the others of my Company into the lair of Ungoliant's spawn," I said, a little surprised that I was not breathing overly hard considering the fast pace of my chase. "I need your help to rescue them."

"I welcome the chance to kill elves," the Nazgûl said, baring his teeth in a skull-like grimace that I realised was as close as his gaunt and bony face could get to a smile. "And spiders would not dare challenge the Nine or any who are under the Ring-Bearer's power."

"Perhaps they will not _know_ my friends are under my protection," I growled.

"Friends...?" Khamûl shook his head. "It matters not. Come join me on my mount; we will go the faster for it."

We slowed long enough for him to pull me up to sit before him. His hand was more bone than flesh, stretched over with a macabre patchwork of skin, and what little I could feel of him at my back was like an animated skeleton. To be honest, it made me feel sorry for him rather than disturbed by him. I was more sure now than ever that he was dead, or something very much like it, and one could not eat when they were dead. It must be terrible to go without that pleasure that is so essential to every hobbit. I might not _need_ to eat anymore, with the Ring's strength, but that didn't mean I was not going to.

With a swift warg for our steed, it was indeed not long before we came into the spider's territory. Thick webs were strung everywhere, but I drew my blade, and Khamûl drew his, and we had little difficulty in clearing a way. It was at that point that we were joined by Angmar and another wraith – _Hoarmurath_, the Ring whispered.

Khamûl was quick to fill the others in on our mission, and thus we four rode into the spider's lair on the trail of the Company. Several times I saw the glitter of insect eyes between the trees, but none challenged us, and indeed they skittered off faster even than our wargs in the direction we were headed. The Ring was hissing and whispering in the back of my head, half to me and half to itself, full of excitement at the prospect of bloodshed, and particularly at the prospect of taking revenge on elves. It did not seem to like elves very much.

Before long we came upon a great clearing all strewn with webbing like some great silken dome, with bits of bones and dried up leathery scraps littering the floor. Spiders covered the trees all around, clustered thick upon the ground, hung from high above. Drooping from the heavy boughs of the old and massive oak at the centre of the clearing were thirteen wrapped bundles; the dwarves. Khamûl and I led the way in, the wargs padding along at walking speed now. Tension made the air thick, and the spiders muttered to each other with a chitinous susurrus.

One particularly large spider was waiting for us, crouched before the tree. It skittered closer, mouthparts waving with a languid curiosity. "What comes to our web-lair, kin-folk?" it asked. Its voice was higher than I was expecting. "Smells of the Dark One, but is not him. Has his slave-things though. What does it want, the thing that hides in the shadows yet still makes a shape in the air?"

"You have taken something of mine," I said, sitting up straight as I could upon the warg's back. "Or rather, thirteen somethings. I would like them back." I just managed to stop myself from saying please. I had the feeling it would have the opposite effect to the one I wanted, considering those I was addressing.

"Comes to steal prey?" the spider said. "No. Rightfully ours. Our hunting grounds, our prey, ours. The Dark One promised."

"And we always keep our promises to spiders?" Hoarmurath said, and got a great chittering and many other angry noises for his trouble.

"Sauron's dogs!" the spider said, "Curses on your petty god Morgoth! Ungoliant is our mother, and we need not take such words from you!"

With a deafening and piercing wail of anger Hoarmurath spurred his mount forwards, his ghost-blade flashing out. Angmar was not far behind him, and Khamûl too. I grabbed for a handful of the warg's fur to keep my balance, and laid about my with my elven blade. In the Ring-sight it gave off that same blue glow that meant orc-kind, and when it touched spider-flesh it burned white. The chaos of battle was all around, and I lost track of the other Nazgûl entirely despite the Ring whispering details at the back of my head. I was too busy; I could not parse the information.

Soon the spiders were running before us. Dark, curled-up corpses lay scattered everywhere. One of the wargs was dying though, shuddering and moaning with spider-poison, frothing at the mouth. Angmar put it out of its misery with a swift stab of his sword.

"What now, _master_?" he asked, still with that contempt dripping off my title.

"Cut them down," I said, gesturing to the dwarves with my blade. Black ichor was dripping off it, thick as mud. I was a little curious to see if they would climb up to do it – I could not imagine them doing something so undignified. I was a little disappointed, then, when Angmar used witch-craft to snip the dangling threads and lower them to the ground on a cushion of air.

"Right then," I said, and we started the sticky work of freeing the rest of the Company. It was only when we had got everyone up on their wobbly feet that I realised I had miscounted. There were not thirteen dwarves here, but twelve. Thorin was missing, and I knew only one place where he could be. In Thranduil's power.

The spider's poison was a strong one, and so it took some time before the dwarves had gathered their senses enough to realise that they were free of the cloying strictures of the webs, or indeed to take any stock of their surroundings at all. Dwalin was the first on account of his size and hardy constitution, so it was he who raised a shout when he saw just _what_ was surrounding them.

"Wargs!" he cried, and immediately began casting round for a weapon, as did all the others save Fili, Kili and Ori, who were still slumped on the ground looking woozy.

"Wait," I yelled, forgetting that I was wearing the Ring and thus invisible. Indeed so were Angmar and Hoarmurath, so my friends could easily be forgiven for assuming that some small warg pack had chased off their spider guards and now meant to devour them. It was dark enough that I doubted they could even make out Khamûl's dark robes, or the faint half-visible shapes of the Wraith's swords.

"Bilbo, is that you?" Bofur called, searching for me in the murk. "Stay where you are, they seem to be focused on us for now."

"Oh confound all this," I said to myself, and went to take off the Ring.

_Hold, _it told me. _I've had enough of this back and forth. You need not put me aside to move back into the world that mortals perceive. This is magic just like any other, and something you must learn to master in turn. I hold power in both realms, spirit and material, and so you and I must walk through them equally. Here. _

It showed me the feeling-shape of a door, or perhaps a curtain, as though wreathed with a ghostly light and smelling strongly of lilies. It was a simple enough effort of will to slip through it into the visible world. "Here I am," I said to astonished faces. "And you need not have any fear. The wargs are well trained I am sure, and will not attack without their masters' command."

"And where are their masters?" Dwalin asked, his eyes glowering with suspicion. He had scooped up two long animal bones from the carrion-pile, and I did not doubt they would be more dangerous than they looked in his hands.

"That is harder to explain," I said with a sigh. I supposed that the truth of this matter would have to come out eventually, and at least I could say that the Ring and the powers it held were under my control, which was more than I could have claimed a few days ago. I motioned to Khamûl and the others to come forward, hoping that at least the blade-light would be enough to show that _something_ was there. "These are some... allies of mine, although I am afraid they are quite invisible to your eyes, save for the swords they bear, and the spell Khamûl has on those robes of his. The tale of how I came to find them is a long one, and not fit for uncomfortable conditions such as these, particularly since Thorin is still missing and I would very much like to go find him."

"I trust nothing I cannot see," Gloin said, glaring, and Dori, Nori and Oin all nodded in agreement.

"You must admit that it all seems very suspicious lad," Balin said, although he did relax a little. "Wargs are vicious creatures, and can be tamed only by equally vicious means." He lowered his voice. "Are you sure these friends of yours can be trusted?"

The honest answer to that was no, but I did not think the Nazgûl were capable of taking any action against me however much they might want to. I prevaricated, saying, "Oh, I think they can be trusted to help us for the moment. You see, that enchantment that froze you all up when we burst into the clearing was the elves work, as well as being what allowed you to be led into this mess with the spider. These three have no liking for elves."

"Then we have that much in common," Dwalin said, lowering his bone clubs. "Alright, I'll take your word for it burglar, since you have gotten us out of a sticky mess. But I'll be keeping my eye on them."

There was a general murmur of agreement, and Fili who was just pulling his pale brother to his feet, said quite fiercely, "If they're going to help us get Thorin back, then I don't care who or what they are!" The effect was somewhat spoiled by the way he was swaying on his feet. Hoarmurath's warg, standing but a few feet away, whined at him and panted, massive pink tongue lolling out. Fili glared at it, and Kili waved an arm at it in some half-drunk gesture.

"If the elves are the ones responsible for our capture by the spiders," Balin said, "would I be right in assuming that they have Thorin as well?"

I nodded. "I am afraid so. Thranduil must have taken him somewhere – perhaps he has some stronghold or such near here."

"Then we must be off immediately," Kili said, trying to stride off in some direction picked surely at random, and nearly falling over.

Angmar spoke then. "It is clear that these... dwarves of yours... are in no shape to join our strike against the Elf-King and his court. I advise that we wait for the rest of my kin to arrive, and in the meantime, send out a scouting party to gather the lay of the land."

It was sound enough advice, although I could see that it rankled with the Company. They could not deny however that they were weak on their feet, and the poison's effects were not passing from them with any great speed.

"Aye, 'tis for the best that you go," Dwalin finally said, "and take your foul beasts with you." Indeed, the wargs were still somewhat excitable after their recent battle, and one was nosing around young Ori, who was edging further and further behind Fili and Kili.

"Nice doggie," he said nervously, pushing its nose aside with a trembling hand.

"Are you sure you will all be safe here?" I asked. "After all, your weapons are missing."

"They must be around here somewhere," Nori said. He had been trying to get his hairstyle back into some semblance of order for most of this time, but now seemed to have given it up as futile. It was thick with sticky webbing and quite mussed. I suspected he might have to cut some of it off, which would no doubt be a blow to his pride. "I don't recall much, but I do remember the spiders pulling my knives away, and it was not long after that that they strung us up."

I spent a little while longer getting assurances that everyone was satisfied with the plan, such as it was, and that they had given some thought to what to do if the spiders came back – although I did not think it likely that they would – and so I pulled myself back onto the back of Khamûl's warg, with Angmar and Hoarmurath taking the other, and we set off back into the forest.

It was something of a stroke of luck that we encountered an elvish patrol just on the edge of spider territory. I suppose they were waiting to see if any of the dwarves managed to escape and come out this way. It was rather less lucky for them that they instead ran into us.

After everything that had happened, seeing my friends about to be eaten by spiders and with Thorin still missing, I was in no mood to be pleasant. I had grown accustomed to anger after all my practise using it against the Ring, and it burned within me now, a hatred of these sculpture-pretty people, arrogantly thinking themselves better than the other races of Middle-Earth, selfishly keeping the secrets of their knowledge amongst themselves, keeping themselves apart and refusing to offer aid. They were not Thranduil but they were his soldiers, and so I had no compunction about ordering us to attack.

There were not many of them, half a dozen mounted on fine-boned horses, clad in leather armour and armed with slender, bannered spears and light, curved sabres. Angmar slipped from his mount and circled round to guard their rear, and then with an unearthly shriek from the Nazgûl we had the wargs in amongst them, their fierce teeth closing over equine legs and shattering them, snapping and snarling and causing such confusion that those steeds left uninjured reared and panicked, throwing their riders and fleeing into the path of Angmar's razor-edged blade.

Taken by surprise, the elves still reacted with swiftness. We were in too close for spear-work, but their sabres were quick to flash out. Khamûl whirled our warg round, the snake-quick strike of his sword turned aside by equally quick reflexes. I drew on the strength of the Ring, knowing I would never be able to keep up with the speed of the battle without it. My own blade was out, though it felt a little inadequate compared to all the others.

The elves attacked, some drawing blood from the wargs, although not from the Wraiths, for they had no blood to give. Nazgûl-blades lashed out, and an elf was on the ground and groaning, his chest split and his innards spilling out in a wet mess of blood and viscera. My stomach turned and I looked away. This was not the relatively clean fight against spiders, whose alien bodies did not offer up such sights. It was worse than killing the creature Gollum.

_Look! Look! _The Ring cried to me, joyous in this shedding of blood. _Take your revenge and exult in it! Slaughter Illuvatar's haughty children!_

I had little chance to indulge my squeamishness; the battle was far from over. An elf darted in, dodging the snap of the warg's jaws, and thrust at me. My sword rose out of an automatic reaction schooled into me by Thorin's lessons and turned it aside, sliding down 'til I jinked it past the guard and plunged it beneath his arm. Blood came when I pulled it free, and a gusting wheeze of air. From the Ring came the knowledge that I had punctured a lung and given a slow, unpleasant death.

I straightened up upon my mount, which was now circling with its pair around the two elves left alive, standing back to back, wide-eyed with surprise and fear. Angmar appeared out of the tree-shadows at the edge of the clearing, blood dripping down his blade. He was grim-faced, but some part of me felt his satisfaction.

"You dare come here?" one of the elves shouted, and I saw that he was in fact a she. "The White Council drove your foul master from his fortress, and they will come after you next!"

I was in no mood for the sort of silly posturing that we could easily fall into, the kind where I declared that no, I was the master now, and their surprise and scorn, and insults bandied back and forth and so on and so on. It was not my experience I was drawing on at that moment, I knew that much, but I recognised the truth of it anyway. I nodded to Hoarmurath, and he darted in, warg and sword striking such that it was only possible to deflect one. The male elf blocked the Wraith-blade and tried to dodge the teeth, but he did not quite manage it. He screamed as the beast latched onto his arm and tore into him. I turned my attention to the last warrior, who had rapidly backed away from the carnage.

"Where is Thranduil's fortress?" I demanded. "Where did he take Thorin Oakenshield?"

"I should have known those treacherous stillbirths-of-the-earth were in league with Sauron's evil," she said, raising her sword and leaping towards us. Our warg snapped at her heels and missed, but Khamûl's blade clashed against hers, ghost-sparks flying. She cursed us in Sindarin and fell back, narrowly missing Hoarmurath coming for her. Then Angmar was there, turning her sabre aside with a flick of his blade, catching it in some complicated twist and sending it flying. All three Nazgûl were radiating some kind of ambient magic-song. It washed over me like a cool breeze, but its effect on the elf was much more marked. She was pale and trembling with fear, yet still she held her ground.

"Surrender and tell us the path to Thranduil's fortress, and it shall go well with you," I said, as sternly and commandingly as I knew how.

"I shall never submit to evil," she replied, and I saw by her face how determined she was. We would get nowhere be asking nicely.

"Do you know where we ought to be heading after this?" I asked Khamûl quietly, twisting slightly in my seat.

"Perhaps my lord, but it would be easier if we force her to tell us."

I had a good enough idea of what that meant, but it was one thing torturing a sort-of inanimate object – I was honest enough with myself at that point to call it what it had been – but doing it to a living being was another thing entirely. A quick and honest death was one thing, but long and protracted and agonising? No. At that point in my life my stomach was not strong enough to do what needed to be done unless there was no hope of finding any other way.

"No," I said. "There is little time in any case." Not entirely a lie, but said more as an excuse than as a real reason. I motioned to Angmar, extending my will out in silent communication. He nodded, and ghost-steel flashed. Blood soaked brown locks. A head fell on the sward. I looked away, disquieted. I hoped I had made the right decision.

We rode north under the late afternoon sun. Angmar and Hoarmurath were more insubstantial than ever, since I was still keeping myself in the physical world. There was light enough filtering down between the branches to make out faint shadow-forms, but a casual glance would have revealed only a speeding warg.

I spend the while casting my mind out, listening for the vague sense of elf-song, or something like it that might mean their kind of magic was nearby. Even if I had not encountered it already, the Ring knew what to look for, was eager in searching it out. Its hate was strong. It seemed, from the vague impressions that I was getting, that there was a long history of conflict between Mairon and the elves, which did not much surprise me considering that he seemed to be some sort of evil overlord. That other name for him, Sauron, which the Wraiths disliked so much, also sounded familiar from some book or other.

Thranduil's stronghold was not too far away, and in the end we did not have too much trouble finding it. I felt more sure in my decision to give that last elf a quick death. We had not needed her information after all.

The fortress was – to my surprise – built underground. A wide and fair bridge spanned a dark river ahead of us; no doubt a tributary of that same black and enchanted flow coming down from the mountains. Two massive beech trees guarded the path on the other side, leading up to a set of massive stone doors inscribed with many words of protection in both Tengwar and Cirth runes leading into the side of some tall and steep hill. It put me somewhat in mind of a great _smial_ of the Shire, if on a rather different scale. I could not imagine it ran as deep as dwarven halls, though the Ring recognised dwarven work in the doors' shaping. Not too proud to pay for their workmanship then, merely too proud to offer them help when it was needed!

"What now?" I wondered aloud. "We shall have some trouble getting through those doors, surely."

"We wait for the others," Angmar replied, "and we wait for darkness when our powers will be stronger. I shall prepare a spell to break open those gates." Something in his dry, cold, voice sounded pleased.

Again he spoke wisely, and we dismounted and settled in for nightfall. It was not too far off at this point, and I did not feel confident at taking on who knew how many elves without the rest of the Nine. I knew instinctively that they would be stronger when they were all together. Apart, they were like the individual instruments in a composition, and the song would not come together until all the strains flowed as one.

The Ring gave me names as their owners arrived. First was Akhorahil, of the same people as Angmar, and Uvatha, who had once been a Lord of a nomadic people that had settled in the lands north of Gondor in years long after his un-death. Their wargs were burdened with baggage as Angmar's had been when we first met, and I wondered where he had hidden whatever it was he had been carrying. After that were Dwar and Ji Indur, also called Dawndeath, both from lands to the far east, past the Lonely Mountain, past even the Iron Hills, not even on any map I had ever seen. They greeted the others with respectful nods of their head, bowing to Angmar and watching me warily.

Finally came Ren, and Adûnaphel the Quiet, who turned out to be a Queen rather than a King, a fact that Angmar had neglected to mention. Not that it would have been possible for me to tell without the Ring's knowledge, for she was clad in the same ghostly, tattered robes as the others, and un-death had left her features as gaunt as a skull.

"That is all of you then," I said, counting them. Twilight was settling over the forest. "You who have just joined our number may be surprised at me, but I assure you that I _am_ master of Mairon's Ring. I have called you to me to attack this elven stronghold and rescue Thorin Oakenshield, my friend and ally, who is rightful King-Under-The-Mountain. I understand that you have a certain interest in killing elves."

Uvatha and Ren both laughed, a guttering exhale like the wind battering tree branches against a hard surface. Eager gazes were fixed upon me, hands wound tight in their wargs' fur, heels ready to spur the sides of their steeds and leap on to the attack.

"Angmar, are you ready?" I asked.

The Witch-King nodded. Indeed, I could feel the melody of his spell wound around him, a harsh drum-beat sound that pulsed with the smell of something acrid and burning with each loud thump. A heat that was not heat radiated out from his clenched fists.

I did not need to voice the command to ride out. I mounted Khamûl's warg; they perceived my will and we sprung forth, Angmar at our head. He was calling more power to him with harsh words of Ancient Numenor, pulling it from the rings borne by his kin and from my Ring, a little siphon that I barely noticed. He did not need too much of the One's strength.

As we reached the crest of the bridge's gentle rise he let the spell loose with a great cry like a hawk in the stoop. Green witch-light burst forth, and a vast explosion shattered the stone doors like glass, trembling through the earth and air. I felt its rumble in my chest. The fearsome Nazgûl shriek filled the air to herald our coming.

There had been guards on the gate, but not many, not when they seemed so strong and secure. They had been much hurt by the blast that split the doors apart, torn by flying shards of rock, and they lay moaning with their blood soaking the ground. We left them to die or not as fate willed it.

Past the gates was a large hall and many corridors splitting off from it, going back into the hill. A small party of elves in fine robes had been sitting talking at the far end, and now they were on their feet and looking about them in alarm. They did not seem to know what to do. We were upon them before they had a chance to decide. Nazgûl-blades dealt deadly wounds. Some of them turned to flee.

"Hold," I ordered. "Let them go if they run. We are here for a reason, and aside from Thranduil, whom I would see dead, I care not if his subjects live or die. If they are soldiers, or they attack us, then by all means we shall kill them, but if they surrender let them be."

There were some murmurs of discontent, but the Nine seemed willing enough to abide by my wishes. We split into three groups, each taking a different route out of the hall. With the awareness of the Ring I was able to keep track of where each of us were in this unfamiliar territory. We could cover more ground this way, and I would know if one of us came across the dungeons where Thorin was no doubt being held.

The paths and curving hallways of the elf-fortress were high and wide enough for the wargs to pass freely, and lit with bright-burning torches. Angmar and Akhorahil cast faint, rippling shadows on the floor as we went, and Khamûl was a comfortingly solid weight at my back. Unseen to the eye the wraiths may have been, but they could be touched and felt much like any other being.

We were attacked no few times. Elves in bright armour wielding halberds were waiting for us as we turned one corner, archers behind them. Arrows whined, and I threw up my hand with a flash of instinctive power. The spell-song of the Ring rose, deep, melodious, glorious. The deadly missiles splintered, missed their mark and wasted themselves on stone and rich tapestries. My sword glowed with new light, white and harsh. The wargs snarled, and we charged.

These were the some of the best of Thranduil's guard, ancient warriors and deadly; they had been practising their art for centuries. But so had the Nazgûl, and they could not be killed by simple steel. It would be a powerfully enchanted blade that wounded any of them, a Glamdring or an Orcrist, and for all their lithe speed and silken grace, the elves were no match for them. The wargs however were not so lucky. They were but mortal beasts, and easily felled.

The dying howls of our steeds filling my ears, and the strength of the Ring surging through my veins, I fought as well as I was able. I might have only had a few lessons with Thorin, but they had stuck in the memory of both mind and body, and I was a small target. The Ring made me fast, and seemed to give me a knack for dodging the great sweeps of the halberds with hairs-breadths to spare. Whatever witch-power the Ring had put on my elven blade, it cleaved through armour as easily as it did flesh. Blood and bodies littered the floor.

In that chaos of battle, the Nazgûl fighting beside me in a whirl of dark swords and half-seen shapes, I do not know how long it took us to slay that first group. Not long enough for more reinforcements to come to their aid, at any rate. When it was over I was left panting, adrenaline and Ring-power pushing all my senses to their limits. Blood spray had quite ruined my waistcoat, painted my face and hair, was sizzling from the white glow of my sword.

"Letter opener indeed," I said to myself. "It has opened up these elves easily enough, though they are made of something rather tougher than paper."

_Eldanqual__ë you should call it_, the Ring told me. _Elf's Death. _

"Eldanqualë," I repeated. "Yes. It is a fine name."

"We should continue on," Angmar said, wiping gore from his blade on an elven cloak. I nodded, and we headed on down the passageway. The others of the Nine had run into similar resistance, with similar results. I was sure that there would be more coming once they organised themselves, but for the moment we still had some of the element of surprise. It would be well to take advantage of that.

As I said, that was not the last attack the elves mounted upon us before we reached our goal. Many times we went past trap-halls where elves rained arrows upon us from hidden walkways, heedless of the fact that they could not hurt the Wraiths, and the Ring turned them easily aside from me. They came at us from side rooms and hidden ways also, but none had weapons forged with the strength to kill the Nine. They fought valiantly but they could not help but die, and I felt no guilt for it. Their king had brought this upon them with his evil, and back in the Shire, any Thain or Mayor who acted so abominably would have been driven out of his office. They had not done so in all the years since Erebor's fall, so they were just as to blame as Thranduil.

I do not pretend that the violence of it all did not affect me, but that was to come afterwards, when the Ring's strength waned from me and I no longer felt its bloodlust in the back of my head, protecting me from what I was doing. It was necessary and certainly better than letting them keep Thorin unjustly, or faltering during battle and letting them kill me. That did not change the fact that it was much closer work than any I had yet done, and to a much greater degree in the numbers slain. By the time we came upon the throne-room I stank with the rankness of spilled viscera and my own sweat.

"The Elven-King is within," Akhorahil said, gesturing with his sword at the door that now barred our way. It had been guarded by the greatest concentration of elves yet, and killing them had been trying work, made worse by the fact that injuries did not seem to be enough to stop them. So great was their determination that they would pull themselves back into the attack until they passed out from loss of blood or we struck them down more finally.

"Good," I said, grim-faced. I was glad at least that the elves who were not soldiers had fled to other parts of the citadel. I did not mean to lay waste to their home and make myself a hypocrite, only take back what was rightfully mine. (In the heat of those moments, I was not aware how possessively I was thinking of Thorin. I had not quite yet realised how much he meant to me.)

Angmar burst this door as he had the other, and we strode into the great room beyond that was high ceilinged and arrayed with beautiful things. The three Nazgûl fanned out behind me. Their kin were still enmeshed in fighting elsewhere in the mess of hallways. We would be doing this without their strength to add to our own, but I had no fear. I knew we would prevail. How could we not? The Ring was puissant indeed.

Thranduil had dressed himself in fine armour, and bore a long sword waiting in his right hand. Although his stance seemed relaxed, the blade's tip just brushing the ground, the knowledge granted me by the Ring let me know he was ready to strike at any moment. His guard were arrayed around him.

"Has Sauron the Foul taken on some new form?" the Elf-King asked. "Have you come to take revenge for the White Council driving you from Dol Guldur?" He sounded haughty, defiant, but there was a hint of fear lurking under the surface. He had seen the destruction we had wrought.

"No," I said, holding up my hand, showing the Ring for all to see. "I am not the Necromancer, but I have something that once was his. I am sure you know of it. I am the Master of the One Ring now."

He paled, and a fearful susurrus rose amongst his guards. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Why have you come here?"

"I have come for Thorin Oakenshield," I said, and watched the emotions play across his face that he could not quite hide. Surprise, and rage, and the kind of half-satisfied disgust that comes when one is proven right about some undesirable person whom you have long suspected ill of. It curdled my stomach and ignited my rage.

"I have heard of your ill deeds before Erebor's walls!" I cried, and if I could have seen myself in that moment I would not have recognised myself. "I pass judgement on you, for it seems none else will! Face me and die, King Thranduil!"

It was as clear a challenge to a duel as I knew how. Eldanqualë was glowing in my hand, pulsing in time to the beat of my angered heart. I wore no armour, but I was not afraid. I was sure in the knowledge of my own supremacy, the Ring's gift to me.

He stepped forward, regal and as elegant as ever. "So be it, you arrogant and evil creature. I know not what you are, but as Isildur laid Sauron low, so shall I you."

I was the first to attack. My short stature meant I had none of his reach, and my footwork had to be unnaturally fast to even have a hope of matching his. Still, he was obviously not expecting me to be as swift as I was, and his move to block me came late. I scored his forearm, slicing clean through his vambraces, and his eyes narrowed with pain. He didn't let it hinder him though, and he retaliated with a flurry of blows like the pounding of a smith's hammer against metal, using gravity against me.

I put my trust in the Ring's senses and instincts after that; I had to in order to survive. I dodged, I turned his blade aside with the delicate application of force at the right time and place, I eeled past his guard when he had to overextend himself down to my level. I focused on injuring him for the moment. I could not score a blow above his waist without leaving myself open, so I had to hope to hurt him enough to force him to his knees.

We were very evenly matched. It was clear he had not become King merely for his beauty – although I confess I was not overly sure how elves _did_ choose their leaders. That it might be whomever was the most fine of features was not entirely outside the realm of possibility. Thranduil was a very fine warrior as well though. His sword was a thing to be wary of also. It was very old, and wrought with spells in the making of it. Were this one of my Wraiths in the fight, they would need to fear it. For myself, I had whatever protection against it that the Ring gave me, and that was nothing to sneer at.

It was luck, as with so many things, that gave me the opening I needed, although one of us would have eventually tired enough to create a similar opportunity in the end. His armour was crafted to fight someone of his own height or a little less, and so it did not protect from the angle of my blows as well as it might. Even as unnaturally sharp as Eldanqualë was, it might not have sunk deep enough if circumstances had been different.

I ducked under a swipe intended to take off my head. Hungry and seeking for blood, my blade thrust forward towards the place where his leg met his body, where the shared Ring-knowledge told me ran one of the great blood vessels. It found its mark, cut in, through, pierced the life-place. Blood came, a heavy, rich rain, spurting with his elf-slow heartbeats. I leapt back as he staggered, dropping his sword as both hands went to stem the flow, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Elves heal fast, and they are much tougher than their slight frames would ever indicate. It took Thranduil a long time to die. Several of his guards made motions to come forward and help him, but the Nazgûl were still there, and the threat of death when they raised their blades in warning returned the elves to their places. I felt their fear as though it were a piece of spell-craft, dirtying the air.

"The dragon..." Thranduil said, as fresh red blood streamed past the barrier of his fingers. "The dragon will kill you and your curséd dwarvish servants, even if the might of the elves cannot."

"We shall see," I replied. That was in the future, and I would deal with that when it came.

"Sauron has been cast down before." Thranduil's voice was growing weaker. "And whatever you are, you are not of the Maiar. The Istari will come for you, or they will raise the armies of men and elves. Erebor may be a fortress, but it will not stand against that weapon hunger. Gold and gems cannot be eaten."

"We shall see," I repeated. In all honesty, I had not yet considered what I might do if we did manage to retake Erebor. I certainly did not have any wish to return home at this point. I was too changed; I could not imagine going back to the life I had had. On the other hand Gandalf would probably show up again at some point, and although I felt entirely justified in my own actions, I could not be sure he would see it that way. I did not believe myself to be evil merely because I had learned how to use the tools of the evil Necromancer Mairon. They were just that; tools. I hoped I could convince him of the same. Certainly I had no intentions at that point of ruling over the kingdoms of Middle-Earth. That came much later.

Finally Thranduil passed out of consciousness, and eventually out of life itself. The flow of blood from his leg grew sluggish, seeping rather than pulsing, and his paleness became the paleness of death. Choked cries rose up from many amongst his guard. I glared at them. I did not think they had a right to mourn, considering what he had done. He had not been a very pleasant person.

Still, I had what I had mostly wanted. I had taken the dwarves' revenge. I could be merciful. "Take me to Thorin Oakenshield, and we shall leave here without further slaughter," I announced to the crowd of them.

I could see how much it rankled with them. How much they would have preferred to try once more to kill us. But they had seen how easily we had slain those who stood in our way before we got here, and that I had managed to kill their King without much more than a few negligible scratches on me. This was not the time to attack us. This was the time to regroup, to wait for a better moment.

"Very well," one of them said, stepping forward. His helmet bore a crest of feathers. "I shall take you to the dungeons."

I motioned for him to lead the way. Now that my focus was not on the battle, I became aware once more of the others of the Nine. They had sensed the fight and were moving towards us. We would no doubt meet them as we walked. As we left the hall, the elf in front of me and the three Nazgûl behind, I noticed the elf prince who had spoken in the dwarves' favour in the forest. He was slumped against a pillar, his eyes wet with unshed tears. He did not look at me.

I felt sorrow then, not for Thranduil, but for his son. He had no part in his father's ill acts, and he was bound to him by the bonds of blood. It was a pity, but I had done what I had to do. I did not think on him any further, which in the fullness of time did not go very well for either of us. But that is a story that comes much later.

The dungeons were not far, but deeper in the earth, down circling stairs to where things started to look more like real caves, rather than carved rooms. I wondered if this was meant to be some meagre kindness, or whether this seemed unpleasant enough to the elves that they would assume Thorin would also find it so. The other Nazgûl fell into step behind us as we went, and before long we came to a heavy, thick, metal door, slatted to allow the passage of food. The elf unlocked it, and pulled the door aside with effort. I went in.

Thorin was looking very bedraggled indeed, chained to the wall, stripped of his armour, but the fire was still in his eyes. He looked up as I entered, and gazed at me in astonishment. I smiled.

"Bilbo, what on earth..? How did you get the key?" He had not yet seen the soldier outside, or the shadow-forms of the Wraiths.

I could not help the happiness that rose in my heart, the gladness that he was unharmed, the joy of seeing him safe. I grabbed him into an embrace such as the one he had given me atop the Carrock, and he returned it gladly. We broke apart eventually, and then, quite surprising both him and myself, for it was an act of sheer impulse, I pulled him in once again to press my lips to his.

Finally I made sense of my feelings. I was in love with Thorin Oakenshield. And I would not have it any other way.


	4. Chapter 4

We spent a while like that, entwined and kissing. I could not keep my hands from roving over Thorin's body, assuring myself that he was not hurt anywhere other than his dignity and pride – though for an exiled King such as he was, that was pain enough. He tangled the fingers of one hand in my curls, holding me tight to him with the other around my waist. I am sure that those outside the little cell wondered what was taking us so long, but I would not draw away from this a moment sooner than I had to. It was wonderful, pressed into the heat of him, feeling the strength of his muscles, his big, stocky form that could easily hold me to the ground if he so chose – or rather, could have before the gifts of the Ring. Never mind that, it was still seductive even now.

Eventually though we did have to break apart. Thorin smiled down at me, a rare emotion on his face. He stroked through my hair with a softness that made me think he was not entirely aware that he was doing it. Then his eyes narrowed, and he moved his hand down to wipe at something on my cheek.

"Bilbo, is this blood?" he asked, with frank disbelief. "What on earth? What _have _you been up to?"

A gave a shaky little laugh. Things were starting to catch up with me now. "I do not think you would believe me if I told you," I replied. "But come on, let's get out of here. Neither of us wants to be here any longer than we must."

He nodded at that, though I could see he was not about to give up his questioning quite that easily. We went back out into the corridor, where the light happened to be better. I looked down at myself and winced. I was entirely a mess. I was caked in blood and worse things, marks of our slaughter. I was only surprised Thorin had not noticed it sooner, or commented on how badly I stank. I could only put it down to the surprise of seeing me there.

"Yes," I said, "I can see how this might require a little explanation." The elf guard, waiting by the cell door, glared at me. Perhaps he did not appreciate the lightness of my tone.

"I should say so," Thorin replied, looking at me wide eyed. "Is that elvish blood? I do not mean to doubt you as I have before, but I cannot see how to believe the evidence of my own eyes."

"I did not come here alone, for one thing," I said. "My insubstantial friends here have no love for elves, and are more to be credited for winning the day against Thranduil's guards than I." I waved at the Nine, Khamûl visible in his be-spelled robes, the others only to be seen by their blood-slicked swords. That they were still out and not in their sheathes reminded me that I had been remiss in cleaning my own blade off before putting it away. I winced. This was not a habit I wanted to fall into.

"What are these creatures?" Thorin asked, looking them up and down. Perhaps his dwarven eyes could see better in the dark then mine, for it seemed he could make them out better than I could whilst walking the material world. "I have never seen their like before."

"Creatures, he calls us," Hoarmurath said derisively. It was, admittedly, made the more intimidating by his ghostly, rasping voice. "Where are the thanks for his rescue? It seems Kings have lost their sense of manners since the days in which we ruled."

"We are the Nine," Angmar said, in dolorous tones, and I could tell he was about to start recounting their many names, deeds and high lineages again, which I had little interest in hearing repeated. I cut him off quickly.

"They are allies," I said. "And they... serve me, for lack of a better term. I promise there will be a better explanation, but I have sworn to give it also to the rest of the Company, and it is better to do it all in one piece. They are waiting for us – we should not make them wait longer."

"Very well," Thorin said. "I shall save my questions for now, my noble rescuer. But I would know what has become of Thranduil."

"He is dead," I said. "I'm sorry if I've taken away your revenge, but I had to kill him. He wouldn't let you go, and his guards wouldn't stop fighting otherwise."

"You..?" He was stunned into silence.

"As I said, I have a lot to tell you," I said, with an apologetic smile. I turned to the sullen guard. "And as for you, since your folk could not bring yourselves to offer help the last time you encountered dwarves needing your aid, I rather think you should offer them some small measure to make up for it now! We shall need food and supplies for thirteen, and horses to carry them." I surmised that all the other wargs had died in the attack, which was rather a shame. Some had been laden with the Nazgûl's baggage though, and we would need to have beasts to carry that as well.

As much as the elf did not want to do as I said, he was well aware of what the Nine could do if his people did not comply. He grudgingly led us to storage chambers, gathering others to bear full packs, flagons and bags, before escorting us out of the stronghold via the stables. Ren, Uvatha and Dwar split off to retrieve the other luggage and met us there, following their sense of the Ring's location to guide the way. These stables were above ground, but cunningly concealed beneath overhanging bluffs. The elegant elven horses were soon laden with the best of Thranduil's cellars. They did have a tendency to shy away and roll their eyes wildly whenever any of the Wraiths came too near, but that mattered little, for we had no intentions of riding them, and they were docile enough and easily led when tied to each other by their reins.

It was with such a cavalcade that we made our way back to the spider's clearing and the rest of the Company., although I took a moment to clean myself and Eldanqualë in the river, the Ring's magic making me proof against the water's enchantments. Then we were gone from that place, never to return.

* * *

Telling the story of everything that had happened – that I had kept from the Company – since I first found the Ring, was not a quick process. The dwarves would insist on interrupting with questions at every available opportunity, despite my insistence that if they would just sit down and listen I would give them all the answers in good time. It was only a sharp command from Thorin that prompted them into silence. At least I had ordered the Nazgûl off a little way into the forest, so I did not have to face any disapproving looks from them. Eventually however, everything came out. My nights spent communing with the Ring, wearing down its stubborn will, finally besting it in that dark shadow-place. Angmar coming to me, using my newly discovered spell-craft to wake Bombur, the attack on the spider-camp that had freed them. Invading the elven stronghold. The slaughter there.

Somewhat predictably, that last part was their favourite. Dwalin went so far as to clap me heavily on the back and declare my deeds worthy of a hero's song. Oin, Gloin, Fili and Kili all nodded approvingly. For myself I was not overly proud of the killing I had commanded. I could not dislike the end result, and I knew that it was in truth the only way events could have gone, but I regretted the pride and selfishness of the elves that had begun this whole vendetta that I had become involved in and hence led in this round-about way to their doom. Still, it could not be undone, and I had to come to terms with my actions. Always, I must consider what was necessary, what must be done, and have the courage to do it. Even if it was messy, even if it was unpleasant.

It was different for the dwarves. They were a warrior race, fighters all, and battle was a part of their culture. Not so for hobbits. Could I even truly call myself a hobbit anymore? I had known this adventure would change me, and so it had, but to much greater an extent than I ever could have imagined. It would all be worth it in the end though if I could see Thorin returned to his kingdom and the dwarves of Erebor to their home.

"I am still not sure these Wraiths, as you call them, are to be trusted," Balin said, once my tale was finished. "But if, as you say, they cannot act against you, I do not suppose we have anything to fear."

"I am curious though," Thorin said, "of the precise nature of this One Ring, and of its previous owner. I recall legends of my people, more tales for children than anything, passed down from the days of Durin III and the gifting of the Seven Rings. As the story goes, there existed some dark artefact meant to corrupt the gifts of the Elf-Smith – the myth-character we call Khathuzh-khebabâl. I would believe it of an elf to give poisoned gifts, but this poison was not of his making. It was the creation of an Urkhas; a demon, a servant of the God of Fire, he who is the dark twin of Mahal. I have heard it connected in some versions of the tale with this name Sauron, and some say that in later days he was the hidden master behind the Kingdom of Angmar – whose King was a master of sorcery, and whom I have no doubt is the one now sworn into your service. So you see how I am not sure the powers of this Ring are... safe."

"I do not doubt it has been used for evil deeds in the past," I said, looking down at it, sitting warm and golden on my finger. "But I have broken it and mastered it, and I intend to use it for good. I don't put much stock in old tales, I suppose. Demons and gods... these are far outside my knowledge, or the knowledge of any hobbit. We have none of our own, you see, and we do not claim those of any other race as our own."

"Hmmm," Thorin said, still looking uneasy, but said nothing more on that matter at that point.

Dori did though. "Mahal is certainly real," he said, sounding a little put out. Nori rolled his eyes and mouthed something that might have been 'here we go again'. Dori must have seen him, for he continued angrily; "I'll not hear anyone say different! Those who say He no longer watches over his people are speaking nonsense. Don't forget He defied his Father to create us, do you think a god who loved us as much as that would abandon us? We might not see His hand at work, for He is subtle in his crafting, but just look at the good luck we have had in Mr Baggins coming across this ring!"

"Sorry brother," Nori said, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture.

"It does none of us credit to be speaking of private matters of religion like this," Thorin said. "And Bilbo cannot be held to the same standards – he is not, after all, a dwarf."

"Well..." Dori went red with embarrassment. "No, I am sorry King Thorin, Mr Baggins, that was rather rude of me. I just find it very disappointing when young dwarves these days forget the old ways. I have always taught Ori better." I didn't miss the nervous looks on Fili and Kili's faces when he said that, and tried to keep from laughing.

"In any case," I said, eager to return the topic back to the Ring and its provenance. "The previous owner of the Ring, be his name Mairon, or Sauron, or the Necromancer, or whatever you wish to call him has been chased out of his fortress in the south of Mirkwood by Gandalf and some other wizards – so at least we know what that urgent business was that caused him to leave us. Also, even before this, he did not have possession of the Ring for a very long time indeed. Not for thousands of years, if the Ring itself is to be believed. Whatever power he had over it surely cannot remain."

"I suppose after so long, a certain amount of the evil would leach out, diminish, or whatever," Kili said, coming a little closer to peer at the simple band. "I think it's okay. Be good against dragons anyway, I'll bet!"

"So that is basically it," I said to the Company at large. "That is how I came by the Ring, and got the help of the Nazgûl, and was able to rescue you all from elves and spiders. And aside from all the other powers it gives me, it bestows the ability to become invisible, which I think will be rather useful for burglary, don't you?"

"Agreed," Dwalin said. "Our burglar has done well."

I smiled at everyone, glad now that it was all out in the open. Despite that my instincts had kept on telling me to keep the Ring secret, I had never been entirely comfortable with doing so, and I admitted they were right to be cautious about it. I did not think it could lie to me, about itself or its history, but the possibility still remained. The advantages it gave us, gave me, were well worth it however.

After that, we rested in the spider's clearing until the next morning. Then it was off on the path out of Mirkwood, back on the way towards the Lonely Mountain. I was looking forward to getting out of the forest.

* * *

The thing that nestled, new-born and delicate, between Thorin and I manifested itself after that in the careful meaning of our touches, of the way we pressed close during sword practise, which was now less about teaching me and more about having time together. I could use the knowledge of the ring to pull muscle-memory into my body, ingrain patterns of movement, write in reflex. I matched Thorin now, and so we did not fight so much as dance in the way that surely all dwarven dances must be like. It was... good.

We slept at each others' side during the nights as well, curled up back to back. It was not all that I wanted; rather I would have entwined with him under the blanket of his furred cloak, but I perceived that he did not quite want to broach the subject of our feelings for each other with the rest of the Company. I did not push. His reasons were his own, and no doubt were due to some point of culture I was not aware of. I knew he would take things further when he was ready, and perhaps there was some finer point of courting as the dwarves did it that meant we had to wait. I did not mind. We had time.

We walked only a few days before we reached the outskirts of the forest, with the Nazgûl winding unseen away from the path as careful guards on all sides. The darkness of the days and nights was suddenly replaced by the sun of early autumn, the wind in our hair and against our faces, green grass, blue skies, heavy branches folding back like curtains to reveal the open world that we had so missed. Forests in general were not bad, I thought to myself, but this one in particular left a lot to be desired. I was glad to be out.

To our north we could just about glimpse the dark Mirkwood river winding out from under the trees, bounded by marshland to the left and grasslands to the right where our road lay. But that was not what fixed our attention. Ahead of us, rising tall and powerful against the sky, was the Lonely Mountain itself, singular, like a monument, a standing stone writ massive, monstrous, wreathed in specks of misty cloud. The sun was falling on its slopes and turning them to gold. I sighed to see it, and I was certainly not the only one.

The path onwards was not as obvious as the mountain. It petered out onto sparse highland meadows and was lost. Nor were these grasslands as safe as they had first appeared. It must have been a wet spring and summer earlier in the year, for there were young bogs hidden everywhere in dips in the ground, heavy mud no easier to cross for all it was untouched, strange lies of the land which hid the way ahead and made it easy to get turned around when the clouds came and hid the sun. If it were not for the unerring sense of direction the Ring-wraiths possessed, we should very soon have been lost entirely.

The sun was not so hot here as it had been in Mirkwood. The gusts and breezes had a chill to them, coming down from the desolate Grey Mountains far to the north. Still it was better than the forest, and we had packed sufficient tinder onto the horses to have a meagre fire each night, which was a great comfort to all of us save the Nazgûl, who were not fond of it at all. It might once have been their old master's element, but their un-death had left them nervous of it, perhaps some corpse-nature recalling the flammability of dry bones or the memory of Númenorian funeral pyres, although they were not truly dead and had never truly died, and thus had nothing really to fear.

We tracked closer to the river at several points, forced by the vagaries of the landscape. It turned out there were several small villages of Men dotted along the length of the watercourse that made their living helping along trade between Thranduil's holdings in Mirkwood and a large town or small city called Laketown which, it transpired, was where the survivors of Smaug's attack on Dale had fled and resettled. I wondered how that trade would be affected by the Elf-King's death. These villages did give us the opportunity to trade for some simple black robes, boots and gloves, which Angmar then enchanted for the Nine. I think it made all the Company more at ease when they were able to see them properly, and if we were to walk amongst the race of Men, better the Wraiths could pass for something more natural than what they were.

After some days further travel we at last came to where the river opened out into the Long Lake, a great body of water that stretched for some miles north to south. I had never seen its like. We had nothing that even came close to its size in the Shire, and hobbits have no great fondness for water in any case. Soft waves lapped against a stony shore, and the mouth of the river spilled down in a series of falls between two towers of rock like open gates. Water churned into white, and the sky painted with all the ruddy colours of the setting sun turned all to fire.

Not far from where we stood on the bank above the shoreline was a ridge of stone jutting out quite some way into the lake itself, forming a calm bay to the south where was built the strangest town I had ever seen. Hundreds upon hundreds of stilts and supports had been sunk into the lake bed, each of which was the trunk of a great Mirkwood tree, and upon them built houses and halls and walkways, and a great bridge leading back to the beach. A few more small huts sat there like guardhouses or watch-posts, but the majority of the settlement was out upon the waters.

This then was Laketown, and all that was left of the once-great city of Dale. As I later found out, they had survived this long on trade from the forest and from the Iron Mountains where lived Thorin's cousin Dain and his people. It was a decent life, even despite the ever-present threat of the dragon, but Smaug had not left the mountain in many years, so that many in the town no longer gave much credit to the stories of their fathers and grand-fathers. Still, such songs were still sung of the days of the Fire-drake, and of the dwarves of Erebor in times no living Man remembered.

Thorin, Balin and I held a quick conference with Angmar and Khamûl. We would need better information about the lands around the Lonely Mountain than our old map could give us. It had been at least a century since any of the dwarves had been in these parts, and none of us knew how much things might have changed. Also more supplies might be of use, and it would be pleasant in the extreme to have the luxury of sleeping on a real bed for the first time in many months, even if it were only the meagre offerings of some inn.

It was therefore agreed that we would go into the town on the morrow once dawn came. The Nazgûl would raise enough suspicion for their dark robes and the fact that they never showed their faces in daylight without coming over the bridge in the dark like the Wraiths they were. We thus camped down for the night, setting our fire in the lee of a rocky outcropping so that its light could not be seen from the lake. I was scraping up the last of the soup Bombur had made for us and contemplating way of dealing with a dragon when Angmar approached me and requested a quiet word in private. Curious, I followed him over to where we had billeted the horses.

"We have all noticed your... closeness to this dwarven king," he began, and I did not need the powers of the Ring to detect his distain. "He is the son of Thráin, son of Thrór, of the line of Durin, is he not?"

"That's right," I replied, wondering where this was going.

"One of the many artefacts we brought with us from Dol Guldur, come to us through various provenances, was a certain ring that has traditionally been passed down through that line," Angmar said, and going to the luggage we had bundled in a pile at the base of the tree the horses were tied to, he produced something from one of the packs. He brought it back over and dropped it into my palm. It was a thick band of silver, sized for larger fingers than mine, set with a step-cut diamond, and inscribed with what I recognised to be dwarvish patterns. As I held it I thought I could feel it humming against my skin, a deep and quiet moan like the rumble of war-trumpets. It echoed in the Ring, harmonising, and I knew what this must be.

"It is one of the Rings of Power, isn't it," I said.

Angmar inclined his head. "One of the Seven. It is as their tales tell; under Mairon's instruction Celebrimbor forged the three Elven rings, the seven Dwarven rings, and the Nine that we wear. They are all however subject to the aegis of the One. Still, Durin's ring is a memento of Thorin's family line, and I am sure he will appreciate it as a gift."

"Well, thank you," I said, somewhat surprised at this uncharacteristic show of niceness from him.

"You should also know," Angmar continued, with a slightly put-upon sigh, "that the giving of rings is also an important step in the dwarven courting process."

I should have been more suspicious then, I should have verified the nature of the other rings with the Ring itself, then we could have avoid some of the inconveniences that occurred during the business with Smaug, but I foolishly took Angmar's helpfulness at face value. It was not even that he was lying to me, for he wasn't capable of that. He merely contrived to fail to mention certain of the ring's effects on its dwarven bearers. Perhaps I had left the Nazgûl on too long a leash, but they did become more willing servants in the end, and it has since been my experience that clever servants are more effective when given their head, so it did all work out for the best.

In any case, I went immediately to where Thorin was sitting by the fire, and drawing him away a little presented him Durin's Ring, with a quick explanation of how I had come to have it.

"It seems every week we have you with us some new marvel occurs," he said, taking it with fingers that shook ever so slightly. "I never thought to see my father's ring again; we thought it lost with him. Bilbo, I can never repay you for this."

"It's nothing," I insisted. "I'm happy to return it to you – it _is _yours, after all." I had never seen him look quite so emotional, or at least, not in a way that marked happiness instead of sorrow and loss.

Carefully he slipped the ring onto his left hand. It looked well there, like it belonged, and I was not surprised when he pulled me up into a deep, grateful kiss. I enjoyed the press of his lips against mine, the odd scratch of his beard, so unlike anything I had ever felt before. We hobbits are unable to grow hair on our faces, you see, so I had no experience of the strange sensation.

"Here," he said, after we had broken apart and were standing with our foreheads pressed together. "I would have you wear this of mine." He drew the heavy ring from his right hand and took a golden chain from one of his deep pockets, threading it onto it. Of course, it would have fallen straight off any of my fingers. "I have been... considering giving it to you for some while now." There was a certain flush to his cheeks as he said that, lifting the chain over my head so that the ring fell and nestled against my breast.

"Thank you," I said, cradling it in my hand for a better look. It was set with an obsidian stone confined inside a cage of silver, heavily done in dwarvish style. "I shall keep it close."

I wished we could do more together in that moment, sheltered in the dark of the night, but the hour was getting late and the fire burning low, and the others would soon be wondering where we were. After Erebor, I promised myself. After Erebor.

* * *

The next morning we packed everything back onto the horses before heading down to the lake, the Nazgûl walking ahead of us on foot acting the part of our bodyguards, which I suppose in some ways they were. It was a bright day, birds wheeling in the skies and their song carried down to us on the light breeze, and our party cut a fine figure, sure to have an impression on the townsfolk.

There were guards posted at the bridge, but this early in the morning they were paying little attention to the road, and indeed they were currently having their breakfast so that the smell of frying bacon came wafting towards us, making my mouth water. We had eaten already, but I certainly would not object to a little something more if it was available. Still, it was hardly good manners for visiting travellers to stroll up and demand to be fed.

So occupied with their meal were they that we were nearly at the bridge itself before they noticed us. Looking up and seeing how many we were, they scrambled to their feet, grabbing up sturdy spears from where they had been leaning against chairs.

"Who are you?" one of them called out to us. "State your business."

"I am Thorin," our leader announced, striding between the menacing forms of the Nine. "Son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain!" He held himself with all the majesty of his lineage, his mail shining in the sun, the stone of Durin's Ring flashing fire. "I have returned to reclaim what is mine in the name of all my kin."

This certainly caused all manner of excitement. Thirteen dwarves – or fourteen, for I am sure they did not know how else to categorise me – accompanied by nine hooded and armed men, were a strange enough sight, and it was clear we were arrayed for battle rather than trading. No travelling merchants from the Iron Hills were we, and what else then could dwarves be in the tales of Laketown other than the warriors of Erebor?

A man who seemed to be in charge eventually quietened down the chatter and looked us over. "Who are the rest of you then, if you are who you claim?" he asked.

"The princes Fili and Kili," Thorin said, gesturing to them as he named them, "also of the line of Durin. Others whose families once hailed from the mountain, who have sworn to join me in our quest to slay Smaug."

"And these sell-swords?"

I could see each of the Nine go tense with wounded pride at being called something so base as mercenaries, but we had agreed that it was the only story to explain their presence that made any sense. Certainly we did not want knowledge of the Ring to be spread far and wide and be transmuted by that magic gossip possesses.

"Men who specialise in slaying monsters," Thorin said. "Although they have never tackled any so big as a dragon before. Still, they are willing to risk their lives, for the reward is great."

The Captain glanced north then, in the direction of the mountain. His eyes gleamed with the idea – I imagined the stories their bards must sing of the hoard beneath the stone.

"Your story has the ring of truth to it," he said finally. "But if you are to enter Laketown you cannot do so thus armed."

"We have no intention of giving up our weapons," Thorin replied. "And if you will not let us cross the bridge, then summon whomever is the master of your town, and let the decision be his."

"He will not yet have risen from his bed."

"Then send a messenger to fetch him whenever he does," Thorin said testily. "We shall wait."

The Captain sent a guard off running, and so we settled down for however long it might be. The Nazgûl remained where they were, a silent phalanx. I spent my time sending out my senses into the spirit-world, questing north towards the mountain and whatever waited for us there. I felt the ghost-memory of dragon's fire burnt into the ground, scorched soil quelled by the fear of Smaug and unwilling to grow whilst his power still lay over them. There was something within the mountain, I could feel that much, something ancient and powerful, slumbering for now, but ready to be awakened at the slightest provocation.

No, this was not going to be easy. I only hoped the Men of Laketown would know something that might give us the edge in the battle to come.

Such were my uneasy thoughts until, some hour later; we saw a great mass of people coming over the bridge towards us. The Master of Laketown had arrived.

* * *

The Master was a portly man, dressed in fine clothes with a thick golden chain draped ostentatiously over his neck. He was not tall, as Men went, shorter than any of the Nine, but that still let him loom over any of the Company. He approached at the head of a large group that filled the bridge behind him, craning forward to try and get a good look at us. I heard many voices whispering to one another as Thorin stepped forwards to speak to this leader of theirs. It was clear that there was a great deal of curiosity surrounding our arrival and the mission we had professed to.

"My good dwarf," the Master began by saying, look us over cautiously, "welcome to Laketown. I confess in his haste the messenger who came to me was not as clear in expressing your reason for coming to our fair town as he might have been. He _claimed_ that you are of the lineage of the dwarven Kings of old, and have come to kill the dragon that is rumoured to sleep beneath the mountain to the north. Surely that cannot be true?"

His polite words and high-browed manner, mild as it might have seemed, yet did not entirely conceal the suspicious glimmer in the man's eyes. He certainly did not trust us, but I could not entirely blame him. It was bad enough for me at the beginning of this whole adventure when thirteen armed dwarves turned up outside my home and it could not be any more pleasant an experience for the Master, particularly not when they were joined by nine mysterious'mercenaries' in hooded robes. No doubt he was wondering whether we were scouting out the town's defences in preparation of raiding it, or some similar scenario.

There was a great sense of anticipation from the crowd, and Thorin looked them all over slowly, as though trying to gauge their exact mood before he spoke. "Your man told you truly," he replied. "I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, called Oakenshield, rightful King-Under-The-Mountain."

At this proclamation a great cry went up amongst the assembled townsfolk, and the whispers rose to a great roar. Men and women all were shouting out in excitement, the young children joining in simply for the joy of the thing. I overheard someone close to the front of the crowd begin to recite the words of some song concerning Erebor's return to ascendancy to her neighbour as proof of some point, and soon that general theme was taken up and discussed in every which way. The Master's expression turned pinched and disapproving before he gained control of himself and motioned the Captain of the Guard to establish some sort of order again.

The Captain seized a great horn from where it had been hanging on a post nearby and blew upon it with gusto until the people of the town began to quieten down and pay attention once again. The Master smiled graciously. It did not reach his eyes.

"If it is your intention to rid us of the dragon and come into your own once again, O King," he said, bowing, "you are very much welcome. Come into the town and we shall have a feast in your honour tonight, and let us have no more of this nonsense about leaving your weapons here. You are our guests, and shall be treated as such."

Such were his words, but he did not mean them. I believe it was his intent to keep a close eye on us at least, and to pacify his people with a show before swiftly booting us out in the morning. It was a more circumspect method than I might have expected from what little I had seen of leaders on our journey so far. Certainly I could not imagine an elf being so polite to ones he distrusted even if it was to his advantage in the short run. I surmised later that this was likely due to the Master's experience negotiating trade between the various races that bordered his own lands; the elves to the west and the dwarves to the east, and the very occasional caravan from outposts to the south that belonged to the lands of Rhûn. He was merchant-born and elected rather than coming to his office by virtue of his lineage, and it showed.

We followed him into Laketown, the crowd parting before us. Many were the looks of awe, amazement – avarice in some cases. For my part I took in the sights of this strangely built settlement. There were tall strong gates on the other side of the bridge, and spikes of wood jutting out from the walkways to either side to prevent anyone from trying to climb up from the water. There were many of these at the borders of the town, interspersed with true walls. On the other side of the gates we were led into a marketplace, although the stalls were not yet open for it was still early on in the day, and besides, both customers and traders were part of the throng that had come out to see us. In the centre of the open space was a wide circle of open water that opened up to the greater lake by a channel, and many quays led down to it so that goods could be unloaded.

Our party was brought to a large house where we were told we were to stay for the night, and thereafter left alone, at least so long as we stayed inside, for many of the townspeople remained in the streets, eager for any glimpse of us they could get. The table at the centre of the main hall was quickly stocked with food; fresh meat and bread, plenty of fish both roasted and made into soups, green apples and pears in wooden bowls, even berry pies still warm from the oven. It was eagerly welcomed after so long eating dried, salted or otherwise preserved travel food.

"All this _and_ a feast tonight," Bofur said, piling his plate with cuts of gammon. "Uncommonly generous, these kind folks. If your ghostly friends _do_ manage to win the day for us, I'll not mind them at all as neighbours."

I agreed, in the general sense. Yet after all this misfortunes that had troubled us on our journey thus far, I couldn't help but feel it was a little too good to be true.

That night we shared separate rooms in small groups, with Thorin taking one by himself on account of his rank. I took the opportunity this presented and snuck through to join him. As I passed through the hall I saw the Nine seated around the table, empty dishes piled off to the side to make a space in front of them. They seemed to be playing some sort of game in hissed whispers, moving around roughly shaped pieces of stone, but I could not make out anything more.

How wonderful it was though to slip under the fur covers of Thorn's bed, feel his arms open to welcome me, to nestle into him and feel him press soft kisses to the back of my neck. This was what I had wanted every night since the forest, but had been unable to have.

"I do not mean to push," I said quietly once we had gotten comfortable. "But will you tell me why you don't wish to let our relationship be known to the rest of the Company yet?" I did not doubt his feelings for me, for his responses to my overtures had been too heartfelt, and often I felt his eyes upon me.

"We do not generally speak much of our culture to those who are not dwarves," he muttered at my back. "But I would have you with me, Bilbo Baggins, for the rest of my days, and so this must be done properly. Our kind love only once in our lives and for me that love is you. But I am an exile, a King without a Kingdom, one who has shorn his beard with the dishonour of loosing that which ought to have been mine to protect. It is not my place to think of softer matters until my responsibilities to my people have been dealt with."

"Then I have even more incentive to help you kill the dragon," I replied, smiling. I was happy to at least know the truth, even if I could not believe that Thorin was dishonourable by any standards. Of course I did not say anything to that effect – he had placed a great trust in me telling me these things that were not usually spoken to outsiders, and I would not sully that by criticising his culture, however obliquely.

We soon sank into sleep after that, for the hour was late, the bed warm, and the both of us curled close to the one we loved.

* * *

The overly-excellent treatment continued that evening. Laketown was not quite large enough to have much in the way of lords and other high-born folk, not even in the genteel, country way of the Shire, but it did have a kind of gentry composed of the richer merchants, those who owned land and farms supporting crops and livestock to the south and east, and those who seemed to be advisors to the Mayor, although they likely had other occupations that I did not hear about.

The feast itself was of many courses over several hours. The Company were seated in places of honour, with Thorin taking the Master's own seat, Fili and Kili to his right and left, and the rest of us nearby. The Nine had not come; they did not and could not eat, and it would look suspicious if they did not touch their food. Quite aside from the wonderful spread, which included some marvellous breads where the dough had been woven into intricate shapes, there was weak but well brewed beer, wine imported from the elves which none of us touched, and some strong spirit from Rhûn. I indulged my hobbit appetite, even though I still had no real need for food. That did not stop me enjoying it, thankfully.

Halfway through the meal, after a very nice dish of fat fish smoked over a peat fire on a bed of fried cabbage, leeks and bacon, the Master rose to his feet as several men bearing various instruments came into the hall. "Our minstrels have requested that they be permitted to sing some of our songs that tell of the return of the King-Under-The-Mountain," he said, and sat down again rather quickly.

"Aye, my lords and ladies," said the leader of the little group, bowing to us all. "From our grandfathers and our fathers has the promise of this day been carried down, a promise that you, King Thorin, have come to fulfil."

Thus with lute, pipe and harp they began to sing. As I listened to the words, a certain fear began to grown in my breast. Quite apart from our own hopes of regaining Erebor as the home of the dwarves, these descendents of Dale had put all of their own hopes upon us too. Even if we did not fail them, even if Smaug was slain and the mountain regained, I was far from sure that we could fulfil all that seemed to be expected of us. Looking at Thorin's expression as the song transitioned into another, rather prematurely telling of the dragon falling to the earth in the throes of death and the rivers flowing with gold, I could see his heart was just as uneasy as my own.

I suspected our stay in Longtown would not be a long one. At least the Master would appreciate that.

* * *

We spent one more day in the town, making the rounds of the merchants and in many cases forcing our meagre stocks of money upon them, for they were inclined to give things up for free in anticipation of the reclaiming of the dragon-hoard, and none of us were much inclined to get into that sort of debt. Bad enough the assumptions of promises that already existed.

The Master sent us north in a big, flat-bottomed boat with heavy-set men at the oars. He seemed rather relieved to see us go; not to mention pleased at being proven wrong about us. Horses and ponies were being sent around by another, more circuitous route, fresh ones to replace those elven steeds, which was rather better a deal for Laketown than for us. Still, whether we succeeded or not in our quest, one way or another we would not have much use for ponies after that.

It was another fine day, for although there had been a shower of rain in the morning it had swept away the clouds and left the afternoon fresh and crisp. The leaves of the trees by the shoreline were starting to turn towards the colours of autumn. We passed a number of fishing boats along the way, nets draped over their sides, and with each one a cheer went up when they saw who we were. We bore the un-earned adulation with something between embarrassment and pleasure. Our minds were not on them, but on the mountain ahead. Durin's Day, when the secret door would be revealed, was nearly upon us, and the weight of time pressed down.

Three days travel saw us up the River Running and set to ground on the western bank, where our pack-animals were waiting for us. All our supplies were there and more, for there had been a certain amount of padding out by our well-wishers. Also there were a few ponies extra, allowing the baggage to be so apportioned as to allow us all to ride, and thereby to speed us along our way. I was thankful for this. With Smaug so close I was growing nervous, and rather than go slowly and put things off, I would rather it was over with as quickly as possible.

The land here was quiet and empty, open and with few trees or shrubs. It was the aegis of the dragon, the Desolation, an aura of power that chased away the wildlife and put the earth into slumber so that things would not easily grow. It was not _all_ burnt by his fiery breath, although much of it was closer to the gates of Erebor and the ruins of Dale, for such scorching of the ground was not necessary for the creation of this bone-deep spell. That needed only his presence.

_One day, your abode will be stamped just as firmly with your own presence,_ the Ring whispered to me.

_I hope my presence will be rather more comfortable than this,_ I replied. We mounted up, the Nazgûl riding on our flanks four to each side, and Angmar next to me, and began the trek into the shadows of the mountain. The very air was still with a kind of sick anticipation, and I found myself several times holding my breath. Much as had been along the route from Mirkwood to Laketown, there were no true roads here, but the rolling hills were easy enough passage, and so long as we kept the mountain before us, we could not become lost.

We left the river after a day, heading north-west towards a great spur of the mountain that had become visible, and which led up to where the hidden door was marked on Thorin's map. We made good time, but the passage was tense, the hours long, and with the heaviness of Smaug's presence upon us, no-one felt like talking. The Nine were the least affected, but they were not particularly loquacious at the best of times.

For all that none of us could doubt that Smaug yet lived, we saw no sign of him, or any other thing living, by the time we reached the foot of the mountain. Deeply he was slumbering, somewhere within those once-great halls, a lizard hibernation, coiled on gold, blanketed by jewels. Perhaps the Ring-Wraiths and I might indeed slip in quietly without disturbing him, but to kill him like that? No, nice an ideas as it was, I knew it could not possibly be that easy.

_Fire-drake he is,_ the Ring told me. _Dragon of the old bloodlines, earth-fire made flesh. His scales shall be as stone, and though their bellies are soft as tanned leather his decades upon his hoard will have embedded it into him, made a part of himself. If you truly wish to slay him, you must hope that a naked place has been left somewhere upon him, or else no steel, however enchanted, will avail you. _

If _I _wish_ to slay him?_ I asked. _What other course of action is there?_

_That remains to be seen. If he will talk, he can be reasoned with. The dragon-kin were once our allies, in ages past. Melkor gave them wings, and they were always dear to him, for their nature was all he loved of Arda. They were secondary only to the shadow-Maiar, those the elves call Balrogs. _

_You want to reason with this dragon?_ I asked, astonished. _What do we have that he might possibly want? _

_Do you doubt you will and power, even after mastering me? _The Ring whispered, half-mocking. _We shall soon find out what paths lie before us, and whatever the course, do not doubt that it is in my interests to protect you, for if I became part of a dragon-hoard I would never leave that place again. _

This kind of self-interest I could certainly rely upon. I was not sure of the wisdom of stopping to speak with Smaug rather than using the element of surprise to spring an attack upon him, but the Ring had not led me ill since I bested it. I would at the very least try.

* * *

We made our camp that night upon the crest of one of the low hills that slowly stacked upwards towards the mountain's spur. The ruins of some old watchtower were upon it, and Balin told me it had been called Ravenhill in better days. Thence we began to lay out our plans for the coming days, of the order in which we should search the clefts of the western slopes for the hidden door, and of how a scouting party ought to be sent to see the state of the main gate and how much remained of ruined Dale. I volunteered the Nazgûl and myself for that mission, since we could pass unseen by most eyes.

We set out the next morning, the Wraiths divesting themselves of their enchanted robes as I slipped back into their ghostly world, watching things change around me. It had been a sunny day before but now the sky was overcast with looming clouds, the sides of the mountain guttered with fires that were not truly there, and the withered pines that clustered in places swayed as though in a fierce wind. Such was my impression of Smaug's power upon this place.

Dale, when we came upon it, was eternally aflame. Dull grey ruins smoked and kindled, ghost buildings burning down only to be resurrected and burnt again. A discordant version of the Nazgûl's fear-song floated towards us, carried by the breeze, joined by the faint sounds of screams. This was a city of ghosts. I could feel it through the Ring, a thousand tiny specks of once-life, meagre spirits next to the Nine, little more than remnants of whatever they had been before. I had the impression then that I could compel them to me if I wished, that there was a certain similarity to the Wraiths that using I might force a kind of compulsion, but they were so weak there would be little point in it.

_Already you begin to gain some of the instincts of witch-craft_, the Ring said to me, sounding pleased. _Any with some speck of power might call upon the dead if they wish, but few can do so in such numbers as you might, if you so willed it._

I did not particularly will it, not even to practise the song of whatever spell was needed. It seemed a cruel thing, to rip those fragile shades away from whatever memory of life they had, even if such life was filled with pain. To make them aware of what they were would surely be worse. I wondered how bad the inner halls of Erebor would be, how many of Thorin's kin were tied to Arda by the same unnatural method of their deaths.

We went on a little further so that we might see the Gate. Climbing an outcropping of the southern spur the fallen glory of Erebor came into view. Vast statues guarded a broken and gaping gash impotently, their massive axes made into empty threat. The river poured out from the wound, falling in a silver spray, and dark smoke and steam came forth with languid power. I could not be entirely certain if they were present in the material world or not.

"All of the halls must be filled up with dragon's-breath," Khamûl said to me.

"A fortunate thing that there is another way inside," Uvatha added. "This entrance will be guarded, one way or another."

"You are aware, little master," Ren said, with a certain embarrassed trepidation, although I did not appreciate him bringing up my height, "that we are not immune to dragon's flame. He will kill us as easily as he will kill those dwarves you favour, if we are not careful."

"I didn't really expect any different," I said, which was a lie. I suppose I had hoped that the Wraith's immortality extended this far too, but apparently not. I thought I could still get away with speaking to Smaug, for I was fast, and a small target, but it might be better if I did not bring the Nazgûl along on that particular sojourn.

Having seen all that there was to see of the sundered gate of Erebor, we headed back towards the western spur and our campsite.

* * *

I reported back our findings to Thorin and watched his lips go thin and tight with a kind of futile anger. Of course he must have seen all that we had seen when he left Erebor, and it did not seem as though the passage of time had changed much. I wanted to offer some kind of comfort, but the expectations of Dwarvish culture forbade me. I could only be silent and sympathetic, and although not useless, it was not what either of us needed.

It was too late in the day at that point to start the search, but the next morning we moved our camp higher up the valley between the two great outcroppings of the mountain, along what might once have been a goat-path that would have been eaten up by growing grass were it not for the pall of the dragon's desolation. There was enough of the rough scrub for our steeds to eat though, and it seemed that Smaug had not ranged about so greatly on these slopes, for they were not so charred.

Day upon day after that we split into parties of four or five to search every narrow valley, every wrinkle of stone upon the mountain's face for signs that a door might be placed there. We looked for any traces of a path, a subtly cut route for the comers and goers to make their way safely down. It was not an easy task, for there were many places such that an entrance could feasibly be placed, and a great deal of territory to cover. Eventually, and more than half by accident, we found what we were looking for.

It was Fili and Kili who came upon it. They had gone scouting back further down the valley where the western side was a broken up mess of boulders, fallen stone and scree slopes, and found by chance what appeared to be a series of rough steps winding upwards between the tangles of rock. Not quite ready to get our hopes up too quickly, they had followed the path up for some way before it cut across the head of the valley northwards via a narrow ledge, and ended in a wide bay that looked out to the west and Mirkwood in the distance. Of course they could not see the door, for it was as cunningly concealed as all secret doors naturally would be, but they were sure they had found the place we were searching for. Indeed, the smooth, sheer rock face inside did not look entirely natural.

The whole Company was both joyous and relieved to hear the news. Durin's Day was the day after tomorrow, and we had all been getting rather nervous that we would miss it, and either have to foolishly risk the gate or come back after another year had passed. Quickly we broke camp and began the task of moving it up to that concealed nook, hidden by overhangs that explained why we had seen no sign of it before.

Said task was not an easy one. The stairs were too steep for horses or ponies, so they had to be left down in the valley under guard of Bofur and Bombur. Then the ledge proved to be so thin and precarious that we had to go across it in single file unburdened by any packs that might put us off balance at a crucial moment. The fall was as bad as that of our dangerous passage through that pass in the Misty Mountains where we had come upon the battle of the stone giants, at least a hundred and fifty feet down onto sharp rocks. We lashed ourselves – save the Nazgûl, who proved to be as sure footed as any mountain goat – together with ropes, and made our slow way across in that fashion. The packs had to be sent back down to the first campsite and then pulled up on the end of several ropes tied together by means of strange but very effective dwarven knots.

After that all we had to do was sit down and wait for the right moment. The rope system was robust enough that we could occasionally lower Kili, Fili or Ori down upon the end of it to give Bofur a bit of a rest from his guard-work. He came up that way a few times also, happy as a hobbit at a hog-roast, for he said it reminded him of working the mine-faces back in the Blue Mountains. Bombur refused to risk it, for good as the knots were, he did not trust his weight to them.

Even though everyone knew about the moon runes and what they had said, that was not enough to stop some of the dwarves from trying to force the door open early. Dwalin tried battering it with his war-hammer, but he could not even raise shards of stone from the surface, and only served to blunt the weapon's spikes and jar his wrists and elbows with the reverberations. Bofur gave it a try with his mattock to no more success.

"No, do not try anymore," Thorin said when he spotted Gloin eyeing it up, for he would probably have broken the blade of his axe upon it otherwise. "It is the work of the finest stonemasons Erebor ever produced, and it is clear no effort of ours will make any mark upon it."

I was just as impatient as everyone else. Not that I had a real plan for killing Smaug if it came to that, but I hoped that when I went down to speak to him I might take the opportunity to look him over and see if there was, indeed, any spot on his once-soft belly that might be amenable to being pierced by a spear or lance or something along those lines.

_Do you have any experience in slaying dragons? _I asked the Ring, mostly to pass the time.

_I do not._ _When they fought with the armies of Melkor and Mairon many ages ago, that was before my forging. Many perished on either side of that great conflict, and Mairon never spoke of it but with great bitterness. _

_How did the dragons there come to die then?_ I asked, hoping to gain at least some clues as to how we might deal with Smaug.

_This was the age when the great powers of Arda were young and strong. The elves had not yet been diminished, and their heroes and sorcerers had not yet passed into the West. Nor was Melkor intending at first to use the dragons in the battle that ended the War of Wrath, for he had not yet armoured their soft bellies with diamonds from the great seams of Thrangorodrim. So it was that a thousand thousand arrows found some mark, with powerful spells behind them, and many bit deep enough to kill. Even Ancalagon the Black, greatest dragon that ever was or will be, fell in the end to Manwë's eagles and the witch-craft of Eärendil favoured of the Valar. _

Unfortunately for me then, it seemed that to kill dragons you had to be some great elvish hero, and even then it were best you had ten others like you to lend a hand, or to have the help of creatures that might as well be called gods. That was not a description that, even with some generosity, would quite stretch to cover the Ring. We would have to be lucky in the extreme for strength of arms to win the day. Talking was starting to seem like a better and better idea.

_And unlike the Nine, you have no need to fear his flame,_ the Ring told me. _No fire can touch me, and I will show you how to pull that same protection over you._

_You couldn't have mentioned this a bit earlier?_ I said, but did feel rather better.

The day started to darken as evening fell. The sun lowered itself slowly towards the distant horizon, turning the far off eaves of Mirkwood golden. In the blue sky high above was the first crescent sliver of the new moon. Half of the Company were staring at the rock wall, half out at the light of sun and moon, waiting. The Nazgûl were disinterested.

Suddenly there was a loud knocking noise. I started and looked round to find the source. A thrush was perched upon a stone by the door-wall, although I had not seen it fly in. It had grasped a fat snail in its beak and was rapping it sharply upon the rock. I sprung to my feet, and held my breath in anticipation along with the others as they saw what I was looking at.

The sun sank lower, lower, and I was frantically counting days in my head in case we had missed one in the confusion of our journey and it would not be until the next day or the next that we would see the keyhole. But no; at last a ray of light shone out, falling upon the stone. With a loud crack a sliver of rock fell away, revealing a hole about three feet above the ground. Quickly Thorin rummaged for the key in his pockets. Pulling it out he strode over and thrust it into the revealed lock, twisting hard. There was a grinding noise like the movement of some heavy and long disused mechanism, and lines began to form upon the sheer rock face, marking out the boundaries of a squat door.

"Come help me with this," Thorin cried, and then everyone was gathered around him and were pushing hard upon the door until it began slowly to move inwards, opening up with a great rush of hot air and the release of a foreign reek like rotten eggs, burnt hair and musk. I coughed and covered my nose against the stink of the dragon. Inside was nothing but darkness, deep darkness leading down into the depths of the mountain.

Even had I wanted to bring the Nazgûl with me when I ventured in this way, I could not. The ceiling was not high enough for them to pass unless they went half bent or on hands and knees, neither of which their pride would allow. This was a journey I would have to take on my own. Ahead, Smaug waited, asleep or awake I knew not.

"Alright," I said, "I had better make a start of it."


End file.
